


Rehabilitation for the Lonely and Broken-Hearted

by communikate



Series: Oh my god, they were soulmates! [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Group Therapy, M/M, MMA Fighter Keith (Voltron), Marine Biologist Lance (Voltron), Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Romantic Soulmates, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Eye Colors, Soulmates, Therapy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unwanted Sexual Advances, the absolute slowest of burns, they/them pronouns for Pidge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 59,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26089426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/communikate/pseuds/communikate
Summary: “Keith. It was all bullshit.”“I know.” But the words are hollow.“We aren’t less than. We aren’t sluts or whores just because we have grey eyes. We aren’t fuckingsoulless.” Lance’s voice cracks on the last word, and Keith’s head jerks up. Lance’s features are pinched, and while his gaze narrows tears leak from the corners. It’s clear that Lance isn’t just saying this for Keith’s benefit.Keith nods as he quickly wipes away a tear that escapes. “I know.”“We are good enough.”“I know.”꧁❤꧂Despite losing their soulmates, the universe gives Keith and Lance another chance at happiness.
Relationships: Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Keith & Shiro (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron), Keith/OC (Voltron), Lance/OC (Voltron), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Oh my god, they were soulmates! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2086863
Comments: 60
Kudos: 265





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!  
> I'm really excited to share my piece for Klance Pinefest 2020, and I hope you enjoy it too. I had the immense pleasure of working with Elle Gee, so please check out her other work on her [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/ellegee2018/?hl=en), [twitter](https://twitter.com/ellegee2018), and [tumblr](https://ellegee2018.tumblr.com/).

In the beginning, they were called miracles, gifts from the gods: soulmates.

Those born with different colored eyes were revered, because the gods had taken pity on them by granting them with the gift of knowledge. It was a gift that gave them the power to find their other half.

One eye was colored to match their soulmate’s, while the other remained their natural color. Irises shown with shades never seen before: turquoise and opal and the cotton-candy pink of sunrise. Hues too unique to ignore.

Once soulmates met, their eyes became a matching pair. The colors, awarded to them by the gods, exchanged in a blink, and in that instant, they were whole. It was said that the pair would recognize their own eye color anywhere, and they would feel an undeniable connection, so bound by the gift of the gods.

They would live happily ever after, eyes matching and colored in fantastical hues.

At the tragic loss of one’s soulmate, their eyes turned grey. From the vibrant shades of the gods to a hue so colorless and bland. Forever cast in mourning until the day when they could be reunited in the ethereal plane.

If one was unlucky enough — so cursed and hated by the gods — their soulmate would die before they could meet, and a single iris would turn grey to show what they had lost. To the whole world it signified that the gods had given them the promise of a soulmate, only to tear it away. A shroud of grief would cover their field of vision as they continued on with only the hope of what lay beyond death.

As the phenomenon grew more common and into something less miraculous, those born with heterochromia were deemed status quo. Those with two different colored eyes embodied the hope of the future, while those with a matching set lived in utter happiness.

But those with grey eyes and aching hearts never lost the stigma. Hated by the gods. Shamed by the people.

They are the lonely and broken-hearted souls that roam our world with death in their eyes and grief in their hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to La_Temperanza's tutorial on how to resize images for mobile browsers!! You can find the skin guides [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15768186)!!


	2. Grey and Violet like a Purpling Bruise and Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really excited to share this fic with everyone! It's been a work in progress for a really long time. It initially started out as present tense writing practice, but it turned into something so much bigger than that!!  
> Before you begin, I just wanted to say that while I have been to therapy, I have never been to group therapy. Online research can only teach you so much in this category, so I hope you will forgive any inaccuracies going forward! Thank you, and I hope you enjoy °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°

The air is stale, smelling of mildew and oversaturated air freshener. Keith pushes through the door into the small waiting room where plush chairs line the walls, interspersed with tables holding a variety of magazines. On the opposite end of the room, a couch is positioned in front of a small TV as if they tried to make this more of a living room than a waiting room.

A bell chimes above his head, and the receptionist glances up from her desk, littered with potted plants and papers.

She parts her lips to ask if he needs help, but the second she meets his gaze, she stiffens. Her eyes are a stunning amber like petrified sunlight, a matching set. The smile she sends him is forced as her red lipstick glitters in the fluorescent lights. “The meeting is just down the stairs,” she says as she points to the small set of steps to the left of her.

Because she knows what he’s here for. It’s obvious.

Nodding in response, Keith lets the door shut harshly behind him, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets and striding to the stairs. He can feel the weight of the receptionist’s gaze as if she’s anticipating him jumping over the desk and punching her for looking at him wrong.

He just grits his teeth, so accustomed to these kinds of glances — the type he’s been receiving since childhood.

Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, he looks at the door crafted from red wood with a bronze knob, sections worn of color from repetitive touch. Strange, because he didn’t think a place like this would be popular.

He pulls his hands out of his jacket pockets, cracking his knuckles and reaching for the door handle. His hand pauses above the knob as a burst of anxiety, the emotion that had been lying close to his chest, beats en tandem with his heart.

Can he just turn away and save himself from whatever torture lies beyond this threshold? Can he tell Shiro the meeting was canceled or that there weren’t enough seats? Can he look his best friend in those midnight-brown eyes and lie to him?

He saw the excitement and hope in that expression when he finally agreed to attend one of these dumb meetings. Because Shiro has been bargaining for years, “casually” bringing up the topic in car rides or at dinners or places where Keith couldn’t just walk away and ignore him.

So yes, he finally agreed simply to get Shiro off his back.

But can he really leave after he’d driven thirty minutes to get here? And it’s not like he honestly has a reasonable excuse to leave, except his resentment for this damned topic and the anxiety that knocks against his ribs like thunder.

Behind him, someone clears their throat.

Jumping with a swallowed yelp, Keith turns around to meet a set of grey eyes, glinting with amusement. “Is the room not open,” and his eyes give Keith a quick once-over before smirking, “or do you not have the guts to open the door?”

“Oh, uh,” Keith drops his gaze in embarrassment and scratches at the back of his neck. “Yeah it’s locked.”

Keith slowly trails his eyes up the length of the man standing on the stair above him, tilting his head to meet his gaze once again. With long legs, he appears even taller than Keith, tanned skin poking out between cuffed jeans and brown dress shoes. His lean torso is accented by a fitted white button down and a green bomber jacket rolled up above his elbows. Popping one hip, the man taps his fingers against his thigh, thumbs tucked into his pockets. The outfit looks hot for the middle of summer, but somehow the boy only seems to glow with the heat. His smile is bright, something Keith wasn’t expecting to see here.

  
  


“Hm,” the man hums, “that isn’t like Allura. She’s the most punctual person I know.” He shrugs and pulls his phone out of his pocket, starting to type a message. “I’ll just send a text —”

“Wait,” Keith calls out, placing a single hand on the man’s wrist and drawing his gunmetal gaze to his own. “I — uh,” swallowing sharply, he struggles against his surge of pride, “Sorry, I just — nerves, you know?”

The man sends him a comforting smile, sliding his phone back into his pocket and stepping down so that he’s standing on the landing beside Keith. He claps a hand down on Keith’s shoulder. “First meetings are always rough, but you’ve made it farther than most people, so you should be proud of yourself.”

Keith doesn’t want to admit how his throat constricts at the compliment — that just walking into this damp-smelling room and down these carpeted stairs is an accomplishment, something to be proud of.

It doesn’t feel like it.

The warm hand on his shoulder drops and extends between them. “The name’s Lance.”

“Keith,” he says, reaching out to take Lance’s hand, but he quickly dodges to the side as the door behind him opens abruptly.

A woman leans her head out, hair like starlight with strays like comets flying from her bun. Her skin is a deep brown, dimpling with her smile and almost glowing under the fluorescent lights. “I thought I heard your voice out here, Lance,” she laughs, voice tinted with an accent Keith can’t quite place.

“Yeah, just introducing myself to a newbie,” Lance shrugs, pointing a thumb at Keith.

Suddenly he’s pinned by a gaze like cotton candy, an iris of sapphire blue with flakes of pink. Sliding out from behind the door, Allura straightens, pulling at the bottom of her unbuttoned, peach blazer and extending her hand. “Hi, I’m Allura. I’m the founder and leader of the group. It’s great to have another new member join us. I hope that we can provide the kind of help you’re seeking.”

“Yeah, it’s — uh, nice to be here,” Keith mumbles in a voice that is thoroughly unconvincing as he pulls his hand back from Allura’s grip. Shoving his hand back into his pocket, his gaze jumps back to the red door to avoid her piercing eyes. “Thanks for having me.”

“Of course!” She claps her hands in front of her chest, tilting her head to the side and smiling so brightly that Keith has to fight the instinct to mimic her happiness. “I would love to speak with you after class to know your thoughts on the group if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Uh, sure,” Keith says, scratching at the back of his neck where the end of his choker dangles against his vertebrae.

Lance clears his throat, pulling his phone from his pocket and showing Allura the lockscreen. “It’s almost 5 after.”

In a whirlwind, they are suddenly inside the room with Lance closing the door behind them. Allura strides forward to the small circle of comfortable chairs in the middle of the room. Tall bookshelves line several of the walls and a light flickers over the door. The ceiling fan lazily spins in the center of the room, barely casting a breeze.

Keith’s gaze scans the forms crouched in the chairs. Several of them have matted hair, eyes grey and bloodshot, whereas the others are more presentable — one even sips coffee and scrolls through their phone.

Besides him and Lance, there are five other people in the meeting.

Lance steps past him, gazing over his shoulder and motioning for Keith to follow. Lounging in the few open seats, Lance crosses his ankle over his thigh and drapes his arms on the backs of the chairs beside him, clearly comfortable in this situation.

Nodding to the other members who make eye contact, Keith slides in the empty chair next to Lance, leaning back and crossing his arms as if to discourage conversation.

Allura sits in a chair with pink cushions and clipboard stacked with notebook paper. Pulling a pen out of her bun, she crosses her legs and smiles warmly to all of them. “Good evening everyone.”

There is a mumbled response from only a few people, but Allura’s smile doesn’t dim.

“Since we have a new face in our group today,” she turns to Keith and pins him with those bright eyes, “Welcome Keith — why don’t we all go around and introduce ourselves and say when we lost our soulmates.”

Keith’s throat constricts, oxygen freezing in his lungs like ice, expanding and clawing at his ribs.

But that’s what they are all here for, isn’t it?

It’s clear by their eyes that they all have lost their soulmates — are alone in this world with fated pairs and destiny.

There are so many documented cases of soulmates that it’s become an accepted fact after all these years. Dated back before the ancient Egyptians, a phenomenon began where people were born with two different colored eyes; it is said that one is their original eye color and the other belongs to their soulmate. This exquisite gift of the gods occurred more frequently until today, where being born with homochromatic eyes is a rarity.

Reports say that meeting your soulmate is like seeing in color for the first time, your first breath after almost drowning. And finally, you have a matching pair of eyes, brightly colored and fixated on the love of your life.

Or so the stories go.

With the death of a soulmate, eyes fade to grey like all the gazes Keith meets around the room.

Allura nods to the man on her right, and he locks his phone and places it on the arm rest of the chair. “I’m Quinton,” he meets Keith’s gaze with a set of grey eyes like mercury, “and I lost my soulmate three years ago.”

The girl next to him, unthreads her hands from her hair, fingertips almost glistening with grease. Straightening, she looks over at Allura with silver eyes, fumbling through her introduction, “My name’s Heather, and I lost Amir two weeks ago.” She chokes on his name, hunching over and twining her hands back into her hair, fingers tapping a repetitive pattern against her skull.

“I’m Kit,” the older woman next to her says, one wrinkle beginning to form on her forehead, but her smile is bright despite the atmosphere of the room. “I lost my soulmate ten years ago.” Her eyes are kind, a soft shade of grey like faded newspaper, as she meets Keith’s gaze.

The next to introduce themselves are Mirko, a man in his thirties with a watery smile that lost his soulmate a year ago, and Antoni, who answers in a brisk tone that he lost his soulmate six months ago without ever getting the chance to meet them. Antoni quickly drops his gaze to his lap as if to hide his heterochromatic eyes from the crowd: one still the color of sunlight while the other is a dull, feather grey.

The silence settles between them until Lance straightens and begins to introduce himself.

“The name’s Lance,” his vibrant smile is slightly dimmed from what it was in the poorly-lit hallway, “and I lost my soulmate nine months, fourteen days, and six hours ago.”

Allura writes something down on her clipboard, her smile a tense as she speaks, “Lance, you know what we’ve said about keeping a detailed count.”

He shrugs, slouching back in the chair, and doesn’t offer a retort. Instead, he turns to face Keith.

“I’m Keith,” he begins, crossing his arms even tighter against his chest as he glances around the room at the other grey eyes. Allura’s encouraging smile catches his gaze, and he sits up a little straighter. His heartbeat thrums in his ears and his palms sweat against the leather of his jacket as his fingers tap against his biceps.

Is he really about to talk about this?

Even Shiro only knew the barest details, because, even years later, Keith couldn’t bring himself to speak about it.

It’s probably why his best friend, the closest thing Keith has to a brother, has been pushing him to attend this meeting, to finally talk about the incident, to talk about the feelings he would do anything to repress — the drinking, the partying, the need for adrenaline rushing through his blood and making him feel alive, despite the death that lived within.

With the help and support from Shiro, Keith had straightened himself out, but he still hasn’t muttered a single word of his soulmate.

“Um — uhh,” he stutters, gaze leaving Allura and settling on his lap, heels bouncing off the ground, “well, my soulmate’s dead.”

That’s something someone could tell just by looking at him, but his heart aches to say it outloud, throat constricting and eyes watering. He tips his head back and gazes at the ceiling until the burn behind his eyes dissipates.

Allura looks ready to speak, lips parted and gaze on the verge of pitying.

The words tumble out like an avalanche of feelings, desperate to pour the weight off his chest and find himself whole beneath the debris.

“He died sixteen years ago,” he whispers.

But rather than feeling relieved, it feels like the floor is ripped out from underneath him, forcing him to freefall, stomach rolling in his rib cage and nausea threatening to void his lunch. His fingers are numb, almost burning with frostbite as he clenches them against his biceps as if the pain of his nails will tether him to reality. But the room is still spinning and his breath stalls in his chest, heart thundering in his ears.

The scent of pine air freshener and mildew is suddenly too much.

Standing abruptly, Keith marches between the chairs to the door, desperate for a breath of fresh air, to be away from the people that stare at him — the boy with one eye grey and the other violet like where the sunset fades into night.

“Keith!” Allura calls after him, but he can barely hear her over the thrum of his blood in his ears.

He rushes up the stairs, past the startled receptionist, and bursts through the front door, hearing the jingling of the bell like a signal for his failure. It was sixteen years in the past, a person he’d never met, and yet he can barely utter a word about it without the world constricting around him.

The scent of the street is saturated with oil and fresh cut grass and the chinese food place right next door. But it settles Keith as he slumps on the edge of the sidewalk, head in his hands and breathing finally regulating.

He doesn’t flinch at the soft chime of the door behind him.

“Keith,” Lance breathes, settling on the sidewalk next to him and stretching his legs into the open handicap spot. Through his bangs, Keith watches the way Lance sways his feet, shoes glinting in the fading sunlight. “It’s brave of you to talk about this sort of thing, you know? Talking about it doesn’t make you weak.”

There’s a pause between them, filled with the rush of traffic on the road just beyond the parking lot.

“But it was so long ago, and it’s not like I actually met him, not like half of the people in there so how can I —”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Lance interrupts, placing a comforting hand on Keith’s shoulder, lithe fingers tapping a soft pattern against his collarbone. “You can’t compare your pain to others.” Keith tilts his chin up at Lance’s comment, meeting his starlight eyes, like the cores of exploding stars. “You can’t diminish your grief just because you think someone else has it worse, okay?”

There’s a tentative breath between them as Lance drops his hand from Keith’s shoulder, stretching his arms over his head before slouching and scratching at the back of his neck. Keith’s gaze drags over Lance’s form before settling back on his own palms, anxiety quieting and shame heating his cheeks.

“Truthfully, I didn’t say anything for six weeks. Just came, sat, and mourned.” Lance chuckles under his breath, and Keith feels himself slowly uncurling so he can listen to Lance better. The other boy is leaning back on his hands and gazing at the cloudless sky. “Allura didn’t even learn my name until I’d come to four meetings, so if you want to compare, you’re doing better than me.”

His smile is a fragile thing, hanging from gossamer threads of humor and self-deprecation.

“Thank you. But I think I’ll—” and Keith watches Lance’s smile falter, transforming into something weak and disappointed, “—uh, I’ll come back inside.”

That’s not what he was going to say.

With an even brighter smile, Lance jumps to his feet, grabbing Keith’s hand and dragging them back into the building. After sending a small wave to the receptionist, they stagger down the stairs and into the room before Keith can even question his decision.

“Glad you came back, Keith,” Allura says before completely ignoring the fact that he’d just stormed out of the meeting for the simplest thing.

But maybe it isn’t the simplest thing.

You can avoid mirrors to deny the truth about your soulmate, so to actively announce to the world that your soulmate was dead, had been dead since you were little — that’s at least something, something to be proud of. At least a little more so than just showing up to this meeting.

For the rest of the session, Allura directs comments to the other members, going through little exercises that don’t seem to have anything to do with soulmates or therapy. Each person says one good thing and one bad thing that happened during their week. And then before Keith can process what all this is for, Allura changes the topic onto something lighter.

By the end, Keith has relaxed, hands resting casually in his lap and anxiety only a low hum in the back of his mind.

Clapping her hands, Allura smiles widely and states, “This was another great meeting, everyone! I cannot wait to see you all next week.” Her gaze settles on Keith during her last sentence as if implying that she wants to see him the most.

Heather practically sprints out of the room, shoulders hunched and eyes downcast as she races up the stairs. Quinton stays for a few minutes, chatting with Allura as Mirko slips out after Heather.

“It was very nice to meet you, Keith,” Kit’s warm voice surprises Keith as he stands up. She extends a weathered hand, and Keith shakes it, feeling the thinness of her skin. Chuckling softly, she begins, “I know I’m not the youngest here, so I might not be ‘in the know’ with all of those things you kids seem to think are cool, but we certainly have an interesting group. I hope to see you next week.”

Lance rises from his comfortable seat, shoving his phone into his pocket and waving to Kit. She huffs a small laugh as he gives her an exaggerated wink and finger guns.

Quinton lifts his coffee cup as a means of goodbye before following Kit up the stairs, and then Keith is pinned by Allura’s complete attention.

“How did you like your first meeting?” she asks, dusting off the edges of her pencil skirt and straightening her shoulders.

“Oh,” he fumbles, gaze falling on Lance as if to ask for assistance, but he’s only given an uneven smile in response. “It was fine, I guess.”

“Well, I hope to see you next week, Keith. I hope that these meetings can become a good outlet for you,” she announces, but there’s a weight to her eyes like she has already seen everything he’s hidden, picked him apart and put him back together without him noticing.

“See you next week then,” Keith mumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking up the stairs with Lance at his heels.

He hears a muffled, “Bye Allura,” and the closing of the door at the bottom of the stairs before the creak of following footsteps.

Lance claps him on the back before separating in the parking lot and giving him a farewell smile.  


꧁❤꧂

  
“How was the meeting?” Shiro calls from the kitchen the minute the door shuts behind Keith.

With a groan, Keith kicks off his shoes and throws his jacket onto the back of the couch before flopping onto the cushions. The apartment smells like chinese food, only serving to remind him of sitting on the curb outside the counseling center with Lance.

The warm smile, tapping fingers, and calming words that were everything he needed to hear.

“It was fine,” Keith grumbles against the fabric of the couch, slurring his response.

Shiro bursts into the living room, sliding against the floor in stocking feet with wide eyes and a to-go box of rice in his hands. “Did you just say it was fine?” he breathes with a smirking smile. “Not horrible? Terrible? A waste of time? Unnecessary?” He’s ticking off his list of adjectives against prosthetic fingers with the corner of the box, midnight-brown eyes glinting with mischief.

“Shut up.” Keith fumbles for a pillow to throw at Shiro, but the projectile veers to the side barely brushing his best friend’s leg.

“Why? I’m just using the words you’ve used before to describe group therapy.” Shiro’s smile is smirking and playful.

Sitting up abruptly, Keith crosses his arms, one leg propped underneath him. “#GreyEyePride is the most cringey viral trend of this year.”

He can remember all of the images that crossed the internet, captions claiming that they are nothing less with eyes like ashes and mercury — they were whole, with or without their soulmates. Buried beneath the blankets, Keith would scroll through the images, wondering where they could find the confidence to say something like that? Did they truly believe they could find love again? They weren’t cursed to spend the rest of their days alone?

“Oh, how could I forget ‘cringey,’” Shiro chuckles, drawing Keith out of his darkening thoughts and turning to walk back in the kitchen. Glancing over his shoulder, he tilts his head and expects Keith to follow.

Standing up from the couch, Keith follows quietly, socks sliding across the linoleum floor.

There were several half-opened to-go boxes and one unwrapped pair of chopsticks. Smiling widely, Shiro pushes a box of kung pao chicken towards Keith and says, “I’m proud of you for going today. I know it wasn’t easy.”

Keith can tell that Shiro wants to say more; there’s this furrow to his brow like he’s debating on what to say, how to phrase whatever thought is next. But Keith hates when his best friend has to think before he speaks, because it means that what he’s about to say is weighted and heavy against his chest.

So rather than wait for Shiro to think, Keith picks up the box, snatches the chopsticks from Shiro’s hands, and shoves a huge chunk of chicken in his mouth. Moaning around the food, he mumbles, “If I keep getting rewarded like this, I might go to the next meeting.”

Shiro’s smile is so blinding that Keith has to look away, shoulders hunching and food souring in his mouth.

Because something this simple shouldn’t be worthy of so much praise.  


꧁❤꧂

  
“That’s one hell of a ride,” a familiar voice whistles as soon as Keith pulls off his helmet, hair a sweaty mess around his face. He’s sure he looks crazed, adrenaline still singing in his blood, as he meets Lance’s gaze, hip popped and brilliant smile returned.

Keith can’t stop the way his eyes travel the length of Lance’s body as if admiring a model stretched across the pages of a magazine. This week he’s dressed in something casual, a pair of light-wash jeans with slits in the knees and a blue v-neck that stretches across his torso, accenting the lean muscle of his chest and arms. It looks warm in the summer heat, but the glow to Lance’s skin doesn’t seem like it’s from sweat.

“Uh, thanks,” Keith mumbles, crossing his arms and letting his helmet dangle from his fingers, leather jacket crinkling against his elbows. “Have you ever ridden one?” And he can’t stop the blush that burns the back of his neck at the way Lance’s eyes widen and travel the length of the bike.

“No, my mom would kill me if I ever got on one of those things.”

Keith can’t fight the scoff that sounds in the back of his throat. “And how old are you?”

Lance shifts his weight onto his heels, digging his thumbs into his pockets and letting his gaze drift behind Keith to the busy traffic on the main road. “Twenty four.” His smile is rueful, and Keith can’t put a name to the glossiness to Lance’s grey eyes. But in a second, Keith is pinned by those eyes as Lance’s smile transforms into something mischievous and unfamiliar. “Why are you asking? Are you offering me a ride?”

“Wha —” With a rush of heat, Keith can feel his blush spread from the back of his neck to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. His gaze drops to the ground as if he can forget about Lance’s grey eyes and the reason they’re even standing in his parking lot. “I didn’t mean —”

“Good afternoon, Lance,” a warm voice welcomes from behind Keith. Turning on the seat of his motorcycle, Keith catches sight of Kit and her kind smile as she walks across the parking lot. She’s wearing a pink blouse that bunches around her elbows as she holds the strap to her large bag. The color seems to bring out the pallor of her skin and the veins almost visible underneath.

Her eyes dart to Keith, perched on his motorcycle. “Oh, good afternoon to you too, Keith. It’s good to see you back.” The grey of her eyes accents the greying hair at her temples.

“Kit!” Lance replies, hopping up on the curb and opening the front door of the therapist’s office. Bowing slightly, he motions to the threshold, “It’s wonderful to see a beautiful lady like yourself. Thank you for gracing us with your presence.”

Chuckling, she bats Lance’s shoulder with a weak slap and shakes her head. “Oh, hush. You’re such a casanova.”

Their conversation continues as Lance leans casually against the open door, gaze jumping to Keith. With a smirking smile, Lance motions for him to hurry up with the slight tilt of his head.

Sliding off the motorcycle, Keith throws his helmet into the small storage underneath the seat and tosses the keys into his pocket. With his hands buried in his pockets, he follows Lance and Kit through the lobby, suddenly hit with the overpowering stench of air freshener. It’s a different scent this week, a moldy lavender rather than the rotting pine of last session.

It’s easier to ignore the heavy gaze of the receptionist, those amber eyes tracking their every movement, as he follows in the footsteps of the other members. Lance turns a wide grin and waving smile to the woman behind the desk before they descend the stairs.

The door is open before Keith can even think, and he settles into the same seat as last week, next to Lance who throws his arms across the backs of the chairs again. He’s still holding a conversation with Kit that Keith is finally tuning into, shoulders hunched and arms crossed in the chair.

Underneath the current of damp lavender, there’s the scent of cloves and the salt of the ocean, fresh and an almost bitter musk. Turning his head to the side to gaze at Lance’s profile, Keith can smell the subtle smell wafting from him.

He wears cologne?

“—eith? Keith?”

He jumps at the sound of his name, hands falling into his lap and eyes jumping from Lance to Kit smiling across the circle. “Yeah — uh, yes?”

“I was just asking how your week was.” Her smile is a warm almost teasing thing, but it dims as she continues, “Sometimes the first meeting can really impact our lives in ways that we don’t expect.”

His fingers still tingle with the way his last weekend went: the rush of adrenaline and victory that tasted like fading iron and the synthetic polymer of his mouthguard.

“If I have fights like I did last week, then I don’t mind the impact,” he huffs, but he can’t wipe the smirk of triumph off his features.

Kit pales at his words, one hand tightening against her purse strap and her lips parting as if wondering how to ask for an explanation. Keith can feel the way Lance tenses beside him, back straightening as arm flexing against the back of his seat.

“Keith,” Lance mumbles, eyebrows furrowing as if he’s debating how to say something — the same expression that Shiro always has when struggling to find the right words. “That’s not how,” but he cuts himself off as he looks to Kit for help.

And in that moment, Keith realizes their mistake and can’t help the bark of laughter that bellows from his chest.

“No,” he chuckles, waving a hand as if to dismiss all their thoughts. His other hand clutches around his stomach to stop the tingling laughter. “No. I’m an MMA fighter.” But he can’t fight the small smile that curls his lips.

As if he’d let the decade-old death of his soulmate affect his life so drastically that he would fall back into the person he’d been in middle and high school — the constant search for adrenaline and desperation for the thrill, the grounding ache in his knuckles, and the taste of iron on his tongue. The taste of victory. Or the distractions, the buzz of alcohol and waking with segments of his night forgotten in the black fog of libations.

Lance dramatically relaxes next to him, shoulders hunching and one hand rubbing down the length of his face. But Kit is still watching him with skeptical eyes as if she’s analyzing him and the length of his relaxed fingers against his abdomen. She looks as if she wants to say something, but Keith is probably sure that he’s heard it all — either whispered by his mom or Shiro’s grandfather in their kitchen in the middle of the night or spoken directly to his face by Shiro, arms crossed and features twisted into a disapproving frown.

The door opens before Kit or Lance can say anything else. Quinton is sipping casually from another cup of coffee, barely glancing up from his phone as he settles into his seat. Mirko and Antoni walk in just after, shoulders hunched and lips pinched in a frown.

And just before the session is set to begin, Allura strides through the door, holding it open for Heather. There’s little more life to her grey eyes, still bloodshot and puffy but they actually look around the room rather than fixate on the floor — like she was afraid to catch sight of her reflection.

Settling in their chairs, Allura is quick to pull out her clipboard and meet Keith with a sweet grin, accenting her cotton candy eyes. “It’s good to see you back, Keith.”

“I was bribed with chinese food.” He shrugs like that’s an apt statement for this atmosphere. But Lance chuckles, turning his gaze away from Allura, and Keith can’t help but notice how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles widely. He doesn’t know why he realizes so many things about Lance.

Shaking her head while mirth tilts the corners of her lips, Allura jots a small note onto her clipboard. “Chinese food aside, I’m glad that you decided to join us. Why don’t we go around the group and say one good thing and one bad thing that happened this week. And let’s add in a goal for next week.”  


꧁❤꧂

  
Around a bite of lo mein, Keith gushes, “And then Lance says his goal for the week is to get wasted for his birthday.” He can’t fight the snort of laughter that almost makes his mouthful of food go up his nose. “Allura looked like she was going to murder him. Like she’s the nicest person I’ve ever met, and she gives him this look and is like, ‘Lance you know we don’t encourage drinking as a good coping mechanism,’ in the most uptight tone.”

He’s giggling over take-out while Shiro watches him with a fond smile that he hasn’t seen in years.

“From what I know,” the familiar voice calls from the living room just before the front door shuts, “you’re not supposed to talk about group outside of group.” Adam peers through the threshold to the kitchen one eyebrow raised, and behind his glasses his eyes are comically narrowed, colored like warm coffee with swirls of milk.

Keith shoves a huge bite of lo mein in his mouth and rolls his eyes as Adam walks over to Shiro, placing his hands delicately on his fiancé’s hips and giving him a gentle kiss. Shiro smiles dopily, resting a hand on Adam’s lower back and tugging him a breath closer.

Keith hoped that after they’d been dating for a couple months all these public displays of affection would die down. But it’s been over a year and a half, and he swears it’s only gotten worse.

“Ew, I’m eating,” Keith jokes and fake gags, but Shiro just wraps an arm around Adam’s waist and dips him dramatically. Ignoring the exaggerated kissing noises Shiro is making, Keith reaches across the table and snatches his best friend’s egg roll.

As soon as the couple is standing upright and chuckling at their little joke, Keith makes eye contact with Shiro and takes an enormous bite of the egg roll.

“Keith! You don’t even like egg rolls!” Shiro gasps and grabs part of his dinner from Keith’s hands.

Keith grimaces around the bite in his mouth, but he can’t fight the small laugh of revenge. Swallowing the large mouthful, Keith props his head against his palm and drags his chopsticks through his noodles. “But it’s not like Shiro is going to tell anyone, Adam. And it’s not like Shiro even knows who I’m talking about. Besides, it wasn’t like any of the personal stuff people talk about, so,” and Keith just lets his sentence trail off from there, eyes still fixated on the oil staining the sides of the to-go container.

A stiff silence settles in the room before fingers ruffle his hair and threaten to pull strands from his ponytail. Flicking his gaze upwards, Keith catches Adam smiling down at him.

“I know you wouldn’t betray their trust like that,” Adam breathes and plucks a large piece of chicken out of Keith’s food with a mischievous smile. “I’m glad you’re enjoying group.”

Keith wants to debate against that statement, but he can’t.

Kit has been so welcoming, smiling and greeting him so warmly every meeting. Allura has never pushed him to talk or contribute, but her steadfast encouragement is something that he appreciates more than he gives her credit for. And Lance is like a bright spot in his week, a sun flare across a photo, saturated to deepen his golden skin and bright smile. Keith can’t hate the camaraderie between them, so welcomed by his bubbly demeanor.

So he doesn’t say anything to Adam as he plucks his box of sweet and sour chicken from the bag with a knowing grin.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Keith can feel the weight of the meeting on his chest, even though it ended five minutes ago. It’s heavy like firm hands are pressing down on each rib and threatening to snap them.

After Kit had said something about her week, Mirko broke down in the middle of the discussion with trembling hands and muffled sobs — even though it had been a year, the pain still lingered and it was the little things that made him remember the most. Kit had mentioned the diner where Mirko and his soulmate had their first date. And he just lost it. Crumbling to pieces before Keith’s eyes.

But Allura calmed him, talked him through it. And each word felt like it hollowed out Keith’s chest, leaving him vulnerable and fragile.

Burying his hands deep in his pockets, Keith leans against his bike, fingers tingling and itching to feel something other than this numbing emptiness. He longs to ride his bike, speeding through curves until his knee grazes the ground and the wind is torn from his lungs. But he can’t stop the tremble of his fingers or fight the sensation of cement filling his shoes.

“Keith,” Lance breathes, striding up to the bike with a pinch to his brow and weak smile to his features, “you alright?”

“Yeah,” he exhales like a puff of smoke from the end of a cigarette.

But Lance only shifts his weight to one hip, eyes lingering on Keith’s features. And like a magnite, Keith’s gaze is drawn to his eyes, faded grey like the fragile tips of birds’ wings.

“Come on,” Lance nods towards his jeep at the corner of the parking lot, shining underneath the glowing sign of the Chinese restaurant. “Let’s get a drink.” Stretching his hands above his head, he looks over his shoulder at Keith, already expecting him to have followed, “I definitely need one after that meeting.”

Keith hasn’t moved, but his keys feel so heavy in his pocket, weighing him down like an anchor, drowning him in the sea, so bitter and cold that it’s freezing him from the inside out.

“Allura says we shouldn’t use drinking as a coping mechanism,” Keith mumbles, kicking at some loose gravel scattered across the parking lot.

He ignores Lance’s snort of laughter as he pivots on one foot, hands propped against his hips and lips quirked in a smirk. “Well, fine then if you want to be mister goody-two-shoes. But this bar has the best fries and mozzarella sticks I’ve ever had. So come on, Keith.”

He can’t ignore the way his heart leaps at the proposal, bringing some warmth to his chest. He’s been having Chinese food for almost two months now, and the sound of something different excites him. And the thought of going with Lance almost makes the hollowness wane without the dangerous rush adrenaline he was craving just minutes ago.

And for once, he can’t stand to see Shiro’s midnight brown eyes or Adam’s coffee eyes, swirling with milk and mirth. He doesn’t think he can stand to see their happiness while his eyes are a stark violet and grey, like newspapers and mercury and ashes and everything he doesn’t want to be right now.

Pushing himself off his bike, Keith strides forward and meets Lance across the parking lot. Sliding in the passenger seat of Lance’s jeep, Keith grumbles, “These better be the best fries I’ve ever tasted.”

“If they’re not, I’ll buy,” Lance jokes, placing his hand on the back of Keith’s seat and turning to see out the back window.

The jeep smells like that clove cologne Lance wore weeks ago with the scent of oil and sunscreen saturating the seats.

Keith ignores the way Lance’s profile shines with each passing streetlamp and the way he hums along to the radio, fingers tapping against the steering wheel and shoulders dancing to the beat. And the only thing that can keep Keith’s gaze off of Lance is sending a text to Shiro.

**Keith (7:05PM)**  
_I’m going out to a bar with Lance_  
_Don’t wait for me to eat_

**Shiro (7:06PM)**  
_Is everything okay?_  
_Is this Lance from group?_  
_Where are you going out?_  
_Do you think you’ll need a ride home? Because I can come pick you up if you neeeddasdfrwwi_

**Shiro (7:08PM)**  
_Keith, it’s Adam. Let us know if you need anything. Have fun tonight :)_

Shaking his head, Keith shoves his phone back into his pocket and turns his attention to the road, realizing he has no idea where they are.

“Where are we going?” he asks, leaning his elbow against the window and letting himself watch Lance out of the corner of his eye.

“Have you ever been to Vrepit Sal’s?” Lance runs his fingers through his hair, accidentally fluffing up the ends and causing it to stick out at weird angles. Keith shakes his head no, and Lance catches the motion out of the corner of his eye. “Well, it’s not in the best part of town, but it has the best bar food in the city. My friend has worked there since college, because, you know, no other place wanted to hire us as 18 year olds who knew nothing about the service industry.”

Keith hums, catching on part of the sentence that he isn’t sure Lance meant to say. “Us?”

A fine blush crawls its way up Lance’s cheeks as Lance chews on his lip, fighting an embarrassed laugh. “Yeah, I had to pay for a lot of my college myself and take out loans. So anything I could do to help with my enormous debt, I did. Even if it wasn’t exactly legal,” he mutters under his breath.

Keith can’t fight the flash of his imagination: Lance standing in one of those hanging cages, tall boots and body glitter clinging to every crevice of muscle as he sways under the flashing lights to the beat blasting from the large speakers.

As if Lance can hear his thoughts, a hand slaps against his arm. “Not like that!” Lance hisses, fingers tightening around the wheel and skin darkening to a brighter shade of red. “I was a part-time bartender, oh my god. I meant that I mostly worked under the table, you know? It’s kind of a seedy bar, so stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like _that_ ,” Lance declares, taking one hand off the wheel to point at Keith’s face.

There’s an indignant curl to Lance’s lips and a low set to his eyebrows, and when Keith realizes that the boy is pouting, he can’t fight the burst of laughter that bellows from his lungs.

“It’s okay,” Keith breathes through the last dredges of his laughter, unable to fight the grin that still pulls at the corners of his lips, “at least you went to college. I just went to the gym.”

He watches the way mirth transforms the expression on Lance’s face, the way his eyes crinkle and his cheeks almost dimple with that bright smile. There’s a moment where Keith’s breath catches in his throat, sticking against his ribs as the street lights cast a golden glow across the highpoints of Lance’s cheekbones.

Looking at his lap, Keith picks under his nails, desperate for a distraction.

“Wrestling does sound more fun than marine biology, that’s for sure.”

Keith almost corrects him, because MMA and wrestling couldn’t be any more different but he’s too curious to learn more about Lance. So rather than teach Lance the difference, he asks, “Marine biology? Was that your major?”

“Yeah! I got my Bachelors at UA, and now I work at the aquarium studying marine stress and ocean health,” Lance gushes, voice rushed and tone light like the last rays of sunlight fading on the horizon.

“The aquarium on South?” Keith can’t fight the way his gaze lifts from his lap to Lance’s profile.

Lance grumbles a, “yeah,” as he glances around them and parallel parks right in front of the bar. Unfortunately, it seems that Keith has run out of time to ask questions. Slipping out of the passenger seat, Keith follows Lance’s confident stride into the building.

The building almost looks abandoned with paint peeling from large sections of the walls to reveal crumbling brick beneath. The light breeze carries the scent of urine and rotting food that does nothing but make Keith lose his appetite. A bouncer dressed in all black leans against a small podium in front of the door, playing a game on his phone under the neon lights crafted in the bar’s name, Vrepit Sal’s.

“Hey Antok!” Lance holds out a hand giving the bouncer a firm handshake before opening the door and not waiting for Keith before it starts to swing shut.

“I’m with him,” Keith mumbles to the stocky man as he catches the door and slips inside. 

Admittedly, it looks worse from the outside than it does inside. The bar is at the center of the room and shelves holding half-finished bottles of alcohol tower above the bartenders. There are only a couple of patrons sitting on the raised stools, nursing drinks as the bartenders lean against the bar and make small talk.

Overall, there’s a welcoming, comforting aura to the bar — nothing like the crazy places Shiro has dragged Keith to in the past with flashing lights and loud music.

An older man with greying hair tied in a braid glances up as Lance knocks twice on the bar. “Lance,” he roars but all joy fades the second he meets Lance’s eyes, hands stilling on the bar and expression going steely.

And it’s like all the sound fades from the bar as Keith watches the exchange, feeling distant and so removed from the situation that it’s like he’s watching a movie and can only observe through a screen, no matter how his heart clenches.

Lance’s head dips and his hands curl into fists against the smooth wood of the bar.

The bartender turns his back on Lance, and the braid drops over his shoulder as he reaches to the top shelf of alcohol. It’s some tequila brand Keith’s never heard of, but in a second the bartender is sliding a drink across the counter. The condensating glass touches Lance’s trembling knuckles, and with a shuddering sigh, he relaxes his shoulders and meets the gaze of his friend.

“It’s all on the house tonight.”

“Kolivan —” but before Lance can even say anything more, the bartender turns and walks to another customer who’s sitting at the far end of the bar and jingling a cup of ice cubes.

Keith shoves his hands into his pockets and slowly steps up beside Lance, propping his back against the bar and shuddering a sigh. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just presses his arm against Lance’s and looks out at the small bar.

There are tables scattered around the room and surrounded by a varying number of chairs with all different colored seat cushions. The light fixtures are a dull brass and shine a yellowed light around the room, almost casting a sick pallor on every face. The floor appears uneven with all the stains, less frequent the further from the bar you look.

Even with the soft din of the bar and the faded music in the background, the silence between them is too much.

“Haven’t been here in a while?” Keith asks, biting his lip the second the question slips between his teeth.

With a harsh laugh, Lance tips back the drink and takes a large gulp. “Yeah. I haven’t been back since I graduated like three years ago. I’ve been meaning too, but —” and it’s at that moment that Lance glances up and pins Keith with those grey eyes.

He understands what Lance means without him having to finish the sentence.

Keith scratches at the back of his calf with the rubber sole of his shoe, fingers fiddling in his pockets. “I get that,” he grumbles, tipping his head back and looking at the intricate and overlapping water-damage stains on the ceiling. “I didn’t go to school for two weeks after I lost mine. Almost stayed out for longer, but my parents didn’t want to get arrested for truancy, so I had to go back.”

Not that he really understood the full weight of what happened — too young and innocent to fully comprehend the grief and loss and the impact it would have. It wasn’t until he received those stares from his classmates, abandoned on the playground, or felt the way teachers pulled back from him, almost afraid to touch him. It was then that he realized there was no happily ever after for him.

So those stares and the way people treated him with disgust, like he was something less than human, became routine.

“So,” Lance smiles forcefully, and Keith can see the way his eyes still look lost, “what about those fries?”

They settle into two uncomfortable seats at the bar, and Keith is suddenly surrounded by empty glasses with the bottoms still covered in beer foam. Every laugh comes so easily. Every time he leans into Lance’s touch or his hand rests on Lance’s forearm, it feels natural. And it’s like the bar doesn’t exist outside of this buzzing warmth that surrounds them.

And Keith can’t help the way his fingers seem to crawl across the bar, resting only a breath away from Lance’s, still curled around another half empty pint. His mind keeps drifting from the conversation to how he can move his fingers closer and close the distance between them — feel the warmth of Lance’s skin again.

But a basket of fries is suddenly placed in that small gap between their hands.

“Hunk!” Lance calls out, raising his arms in the air and reaching over the bar to give his friend a half hug. He claps Lance on the back with large hands and lets out a bellow of a laugh. He’s wearing an orange headband that holds back his brunette bangs. And Keith can’t stop looking at the broadness to his shoulders and the muscles rippling under his apron.

“Hey buddy. Thought I wasn’t going to see you until I got home.” Hunk tucks his thumbs into his apron strings and leans against the back edge of the bar. “Didn’t think you’d come around _today_.” The chef emphasizes the word as if it’s supposed to signify something more than Keith takes it for.

But Lance hasn’t been dwelling on any conversation topic for long and is already diving into another.

With a wide smile, Lance throws an arm across Keith’s shoulders and almost pulls him off the chair. “This is Keith,” he declares as Keith fixates his eyes on Hunk, ignoring the way his body soaks in the heat of Lance’s touch.

“Keith?” Hunk asks with a raised eyebrow, but the confusion on his features transforms into realization. “Oh, Tuesday Keith.” And there’s the day again, and Lance’s arm stiffens around Keith.

“Don’t make it sound like I take a different Keith to a bar every night of the week, Hunk,” Lance groans, arm suddenly falling from Keith and leaving his heated skin cold against the bar’s air conditioning.

Keith pushes his most recently empty glass down the bar, watching the way the condensation draws lines against the surface. Looking at Lance from under his lashes, he mumbles, “So I’m just your Tuesday Keith.”

The look of embarrassed horror on Lance’s face is worth the blush that creeps up his own neck. And Keith can’t fight the smirk that curls at the corners of his lips.

Lance’s lips flap like he’s trying to find something to say to Keith, but instead he turns harshly on Hunk with a pointed finger. “This is all your fault.” But Hunk’s laughter is a warm, jovial thing that seems to brighten the yellow hue to the lights and illuminate the bar.

“Fries,” Lance announces, pushing the basket into Keith’s hands and distracting him from the turn the conversation had taken.

“I should head back to the kitchen,” Hunk confesses as he reaches up to tighten the bandana around his head, “but it was really nice meeting you, Keith!” He takes a couple of steps away, before quickly turning around and slamming his hands on the bar. “Oh! I’m having a small birthday party at our apartment this weekend if you want to come.”

Keith’s head snaps up, mouth full of fries as he meets Hunk’s gaze. His eyes are still mismatched, one colored like a canary’s wing, the yellow of a beach sunroom and primrose, and the other is terracotta.

Hunk doesn’t seem to shrink under Keith’s heterochromic gaze, all grey and violet like a purpling bruise and ashes, so unlike the vibrant hues that glitter with Hunk’s excitement.

“I don’t — wouldn’t I be, you know, intruding?” Keith stumbles as he glances back to the plate of fries and rolls one between his fingers.

“Of course not.” There’s a firm honesty to his voice that has Keith glancing up and smiling. “Lance can text you all the information, but I hope to see you there!” With a wave, Hunk walks past the bar and disappears into the kitchen.

Keith shoves fries into his mouth and moans at the taste. He can almost hear his trainer hissing in his ear, berating him for all of the beers and fries. But that doesn’t stop him as he continues to eat, one glorious fry at a time.

Lance clears his throat, and Keith glances up at him before a phone is pushed into his hands. “I guess we have to exchange numbers now, huh?”

Nodding, Keith pulls his phone from his pocket and delicately places it in Lance’s awaiting palm.

Turning his attention back to Lance’s phone, he sees the background is a shaky picture of a shark from the aquarium, swimming in circles and teeth bared for a bite of food Lance had probably just dropped in the water. He quickly plugs in his number, but before he can save the contact, Lance’s voice interrupts him.

“Oh, you have a text from Shiro.”

Keith leans over, his cheek almost pressing against Lance’s shoulder as he glances at his phone screen.

**Shiro (11:12PM)**  
_Hey, Adam and I are about to go to bed, but please call me if you need a ride home_  
_Don’t worry about waking me up_  
_Be safe on your date ;)_

Snatching his phone from Lance’s hands, Keith quickly types a message, shoulders hunching with every word.

**Keith (11:24PM)**  
_IT’S NOT A DATE!!_  
_Go to bed, old man!_

Opening up a new contact page, Keith hands his phone back to Lance, unable to meet his eyes as he stumbles for an excuse, “Sorry. My brother doesn’t understand that I can go out with people just as friends.”

Lance’s brow furrows for a moment as if in thought. Before Keith can ponder the expression, Lance’s fingers brush over his palm as he takes back the phone, delicate and warm and leaving Keith longing for more in his buzzed haze. “It’s okay, Keith,” Lance chuckles, quickly typing in his number and adding a few cute emojis after his name. “I have four older siblings, so I know how it is.”

“Shiro is so overprotective that I feel suffocated half the time,” Keith grumbles as they exchange phones.

“If you make one mistake in the Serrano household, it will live on forever.” Lance’s eyes meet his, and it’s the most serious Keith has ever seen him — narrowed gaze and lowered eyebrows, jaw strong and firm set to his lips. Keith raises a single eyebrow in question, demanding further explanation. “When I was four, I said that I wanted to be a shark when I grew up, and this year for my birthday, Marco got me a shark pajama onesie with a card that said ‘so you can finally achieve your dream.’”

Lance’s brow is furrowed, arms crossed and lips curling from a straight line into a pout. Keith bites his cheek fumbling with the empty glass beside him to stop the bubbles of laughter tickling his ribs. But one glance out the corner of his eyes at Lance’s slouched form sends Keith careening against the bar with laughter.

“Hey!” Lance snaps, but Keith can’t help it as his eyes glisten with tears and his sides ache with each chuckle. Uncrossing his arms, Lance points a finger against Keith’s chest. “You tell a story then if you think my life is so funny.”

Wiping the remnants of tears from his eyes, Keith straightens, unable to banish the smile from his features as he feels the buzz of alcohol and joy singing in his blood. “I went to live with Shiro and his grandfather when I was like twelve, so he’s technically not my brother, but he’s my brother in every way that counts.” Keith can feel himself slipping, can feel the story he’s barely hinted at in group dripping from his numb lips. “I mean we’ve lived together ever since, because my mom couldn’t really take care of anyone since my dad died.”

That makes Lance pause, the rim of the glass close to his lips. But when Keith glances up to meet Lance’s grey eyes, there isn’t pity in that expression, only understanding.

“But I think the best memory was my first Christmas with Shiro and his grandpa.” Keith continues, watching the way Lance smiles at him in muted encouragement, “Shiro was like seventeen, all he wanted for Christmas was this one video game. So when he finally opens the present, it turns out that the version of the game is for a console we didn’t have.” He can’t stop the chuckles that bubble in his throat or the way his smile curves to an almost manic twist. “And Shiro was so polite about it when he was explaining it to his grandfather, but it turned out that grandpa had knowingly bought the wrong version just to fuck with him, and the real one was hidden behind the tree.”

“That’s not funny,” Lance says with a straight face, but Keith can see the way his frown twitches with humor. “And that’s not a story about you either!”

Shrugging his shoulders, Keith holds up a hand to get one of the bartender's attention. “Whatever you say, sharkboy.”

Lance makes an offended sound and turns to his friend behind the bar. “Kolivan, he’s cut off. He’s being mean.” The boy beside him shoves him with his shoulder while keeping his eyes on the bartender.

Pulling his credit card from his wallet, Keith holds it out between two fingers. “But I’m paying,” he chuckles as Kolivan ignores Lance and takes Keith’s card in exchange for another beer.

And Keith takes a sip, falling deeper into the comforting buzz between them as Lance begins a fantastical story about his siblings.

“One time, Veronica and Rachel publically humiliated this one guy that was bullying me.” Keith raises a single eyebrow in question, demanding a further explanation. “So because Rachel was a theater kid, she had access to all the costumes as well as lackies that would do anything for her. And Veronica was the caption of the debate team,” and Lance is diving into the story, eyes glinting and smiling wide.

Keith feels like this night should never end — between the peace that settles around them like drifting snow and the warmth between them like a crackling fire and the relaxation that almost feels so foreign to Keith. It’s a new sensation that he’s ready to get lost in.

“No, you don’t understand,” Keith slurs, placing both of his hands on Lance’s shoulders — either to steady the boy in front of him or himself. “I’ve lived with Shiro for almost my whole life. We were neighbors before I moved in, and I didn’t even get to escape to college. I’ve never been able to avoid him!”

It seems that little fact makes all the stories of brotherly affection, tucked between the tragedies that imploded Keith’s life, all the funnier to Lance. The boy tips his head back and cackles, hands grasping at his stomach as if to stop splintering pain. There’s that blinding smile again with the almost-dimples in those tanned cheeks, the small crinkles around his soft, grey eyes.

And Keith feels himself leaning forward, as if to bask in the light of Lance’s smile — heat — cologne.

But his feet slip off the rung of the chair, sending him careening into Lance’s lap, a sputtering mess with a thundering heart and blushing cheeks. And that only seems to make Lance laugh harder, each chuckle scented with all the beers they drank. Keith’s hands skitter across Lance’s thighs — firm and warm underneath his fingertips and if he could keep them there, feel the softness of his skin and — Keith straightens and stops the drunk train of thought that spins along with the room.

He sways to the side, but Lance’s firm hand wraps around his bicep. His head dramatically drops to his own shoulder, swinging up to meet Lance’s eyes. And all of his limbs feel uncoordinated, buzzing at the fingertips and moving with the vertigo.

“We drank way too much,” Lance giggles with flushed cheeks and a warm smile.

“Allura would not be happy.” Keith slumps against the bar and biting off a whine when Lance’s hand drops from his arm. “My coach isn’t going to be happy either,” he mumbles, wiping a hand down his face and in a sobering thought, he wonders what time it is.

He fumbles with his phone to see that it’s almost one in the morning and a small whimper sounds in the back of his throat.

“I have to be up at four for training,” Keith whines, chin flopping to his chest with a defeated sigh.

“Oh fuck,” Lance gasps as he looks at the time, and there’s a moment of tense silence that could have spanned for thirty seconds or it could have been ten minutes. But Keith can only focus on keeping his feet steady beneath him or keeping his knees from going weak. “I — I can’t drive you home.”

Keith glances up through his bangs to see a look of concern maring Lance’s expression.

“It’s fine.” Keith waves a dismissive hand, pulling up Shiro’s contact and pressing the call button. “I’ll just call Shiro.”

“Wait! Keith — Hunk could just — are you already calling?” Lance groans, scrubbing down his face with both hands before flagging over one of the bartenders Keith doesn’t remember the name of. “Can I get two cups of water and Hunk?”

The phone rings three times over Lance’s talking before a rushed and panicked voice sounds over the line, “Keith? Keith? Is everything okay?”

“Can you come pick me up?” Keith burps, and it tastes like rotting wheat, like beer and missed opportunities and frat parties. “I had too much to —”

“Where are you?” Shiro asks, cutting Keith off before he can ramble.

Keith turns his head, neck weak and swinging as he stumbles for an accurate answer. “I don’t know. Some bar? Lance used to work here in college, and we had —”

But he’s cut off by the feeling of Lance taking the phone from his hands and pressing it to his ear. “Hi, Shiro. Yeah. Yeah, I know. We’re at Vrepit Sal’s.” Lance closes his eyes and drags his hand through his hair, ruffling up the edges and Keith wants to brush them back into place. Wants to press up against Lance, feel his warmth, smell his cologne. Wants to whisper into his ear, feel him shiver underneath his touch. Wants to close his eyes so Lance can’t see how broken and incomplete he is. Wants Lance to look him in the eyes and say that Keith is enough, enough, _enough_.

He wants.

He wants _so much_. And it scares him, because he’s never wanted like this before.

“I just didn’t want to risk it.” Keith is drawn out of his spiraling thoughts at the small break in Lance’s breathy voice. He sighs, “yeah, after all that. I’ll text you the address. Bye.”

Lance pulls the phone away from his ear and quickly types a message to Shiro as Keith draws designs in the left over salt from the fries. Him and Lance make stilted conversation as they drink cup after cup of water. Keith chews on the straw and waits for Shiro to appear, wondering if he’ll be mad or relieved or grateful.

And he appears like an avenging angel through the doors of the bar. His hair is sleep-tousled and his pajama pants are the ones Adam got him for Christmas last year, the ones with little snowflakes that are too big on the waist so he has to roll them up several times. Keith can feel his mind spiraling down tangents as he smiles, waving at Shiro as he marches forward.

“Sorry,” he stumbles forward and mumbles against Shiro’s chest.

And the next moment Keith is settled in the front seat of the car, snapping the seat belt on and curling up against the window, tucking his knees into his chest. His head is spinning. Feels like the car is spinning on a roller coaster track when he knows the keys aren’t even in the ignition. 

Keith can hear Shiro’s rumbling voice, muffled through the car, “This is not what I meant, Lance.”

“I’m doing exactly what you wanted!” Lance sounds indignant, louder than Shiro, cutting through the air and almost making Keith open his eyes to see the scene outside of the car.

“Because having to pick my brother up from a seedy bar at one in the morning is what —” Shiro growls, cutting himself off. “You know what? Never mind.” The car door opens, but Keith doesn’t have the energy to open his eyes or even uncurl the hunch to his shoulders. Shiro’s voice is clear as he says, “Goodnight, Lance.”

And before he realizes it, the soft sway of the car has lulled him to sleep.  


꧁❤꧂

  


**Keith (4:35AM)**  
_I’m cursing your name right now_

**Keith (6:22AM)**  
_I’ve thrown up four times since training began_  
_I’m so hungover that I actually feel like I have the flu_

**Keith (6:41AM)**  
_My coach is relentless because she doesn’t approve of my “degenerate behavior” from last night_  
_So thanks again_

**Lance✨💙🦈 (7:32AM)**  
_Would it make you feel better to know that I’m suffering too?_  
_I’m actually thinking of wearing my sunglasses inside the aquarium (눈_눈)_

**Lance✨💙🦈 (7:35AM)**  
_Next time we hang out, I promise it won’t be at a bar haha_

Keith was slumped against the lockers in the gym, sweat still clinging to his skin and stomach still rolling with nausea. Acxa had cut training short and sent him to the treadmill, forcing him to run because she “didn’t have time to deal with the consequences of his childish behavior” and he “should learn to take responsibility for his actions.”

Ezor and Zethrid, Acxa’s coworkers and other personal trainers at the gym, muffled their laughter as Acxa turned up the speed on the treadmill and left him to suffer.

He felt like his face would never return from this shade of green, that the pallor to his skin would remain forever.

And unfortunately, the treadmill wasn’t a distraction from the thoughts of last night — how his desires still settled on his tongue, tasting like ash and iron and the grey that colored his left eye.

But his heart thundered in his chest at Lance’s text.

There was a next time?  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wonderful reminder that all of the art for this Big Bang was done by the amazing Elle Gee!! (≧◡≦) ♡ Please check her out and give her all the love she deserves on her [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/ellegee2018/?hl=en), [twitter](https://twitter.com/ellegee2018), and [tumblr](https://ellegee2018.tumblr.com/)!!


	3. Anytime

**Lance✨💙🦈 (7:55PM)**  
_Oh, I forgot to send you the details for Hunk’s birthday party!_  
_Here’s everything:_  
_[hunksbdayparty.jpg]_

**Keith (8:17PM)**  
_Will there be alcohol?_

**Lance✨💙🦈 (8:20PM)**  
_I’m not sure what’s the right answer here, but yeah. I think someone’s making fancy jungle juice or something (¬‿¬ )_

**Keith (8:21PM)**  
_Oh, sorry. I think something came up._

**Lance✨💙🦈 (8:23PM)**  
_Keeeeeeeeiiiittthhh :(_

**Keith (8:29PM)**  
_I also don’t really know what kind of gift you get someone…_

**Lance✨💙🦈 (8:34PM)**  
_You don’t need to bring a present!!_  
_It’s a potluck, so bringing a treat is more than enough_

**Keith (8:35PM)**  
_Why do I feel like it needs to be homemade?_

**Lance✨💙🦈 (8:35PM)**  
_(ง ื▿ ื)ว_

  


꧁❤꧂

  
Keith freezes the second he hears the lock on the front door click, because there’s no way to hide the disaster surrounding him like a hurricane.

“I’m home!” Shiro’s voice is cheerful as he strides through the living room and pauses in the threshold to the kitchen. “Keith, whe—” His eyes widen as he tries to take in the horrific state of the room — flour scattered everywhere and the handheld mixer unplugged and laying in a pool of black dough and shattered glass.

Keith smiles sheepishly as a puff of flour filters from his hair and an eggshell crunches under his foot. “Welcome home.”  


꧁❤꧂

  
Keith steps out of the shower to a rackeous laugh and a bellow of, “If this was him trying to make brownies, I can’t imagine him cooking dinner.”

“Very funny, Adam,” Keith grumbles as he shakes the extra moisture from his hair on the white towel. Draping it over his shoulders, he crosses his arms and leans against the wall. “The mixer almost caught my shirt, so I accidentally dropped it and the bowl.”

“So that splattered flour and cracked eggs everywhere?” Shiro asks, raising one eyebrow as if waiting for a more outlandish explanation for the disaster.

“Yeah.” Keith chews on his bottom lip and wonders how he’s going to make something in the hour he has before Hunk’s party. There’s always the option of buying something, but then he would have to tell Lance all about his baking fiasco, and he really doesn’t want to provide him with any ammunition against him — especially after hearing that a good story never dies in the Serrano household.

If Lance wanting to be a shark when he was four has lived on for twenty-one years, what would happen with a story titled “24 year old Man Wreaks Havoc with a Simple Brownie Recipe?”

Shiro shakes his head and dumps the last dustpan full of egg shells and glass into the trash can. “Why were you trying to make brownies anyway? New ‘Acxa-approved’ recipe or something?”

It’s not like Keith can just claim he had the sudden urge to bake, nor does he want to tell Shiro about the party tonight. He wasn’t happy with Keith after Tuesday, probably because he’d been so drunk that he barely remembers getting picked up. But he knows it must have been eventful with the way Shiro had scowled and mumbled under his breath for the following days.

So Keith mumbles, almost hoping that Shiro won’t hear him, “Hunk invited me to his birthday party. I’m supposed to make something to bring, and the youtube video I watched made it seem like brownies were the easiest thing to do, and yeah.”

“You were invited to a birthday party?” Adam asks, and there’s this flutter of hope in his words that mirrors the way Shiro speaks to Keith when he’s proud of something as simple as socializing — like admitting he misses his dad, like coming out as gay, like every Tuesday after group therapy.

“Yeah,” Keith grumbles, rubbing at the back of his neck to peel the damp pieces of hair off his skin.

“Do you have to bring a dessert?” Adam stands and dusts off his pants with a glint to his eyes that ignites a spark of hope in Keith’s chest. Shaking his head no, Adam taps a finger to his chin as he thinks aloud, “If you have to leave soon, we can just whip something up —”

“What about that s’mores dip you made for Matt’s housewarming?” Shiro suggests as he slips on his rubber gloves to do the dishes and clean out the fragments of glass that fell between the dirty plates.

With a wry smile and a clap of his hands, Adam begins directing everyone around, “Perfect! Okay, Keith you go get ready. Shiro will finish cleaning the kitchen, and I’ll get the supplies.”

Without another word, Adam marches out the front door with a little skip in his step, and Keith is forced to just watch him go with confusion furrowing his brows.

“You better get ready, because if you’re not done by the time Adam’s back...” and Shiro doesn’t need to finish the sentence as he sets a plate on the drying rack with the shake of his head.

Keith bolts out of the kitchen to his bedroom, not allowing himself to get overwhelmed with his monochromatic closet. Throwing on his favorite pair of ripped black jeans, Keith stands shirtless as he searches his closet for something more acceptable than the band t-shirt he wore on Tuesday.

With a groan, he walks to the bathroom while clasping on the black choker. After throwing on some deodorant, he looks himself over in the mirror — shirtless and so pale compared to the soft grey walls around him. He’s gained more definition since last summer, thanks to switching to Acxa as a coach and her ruthless training regime. 

He’s debating on wearing cologne — remembers the way Lance had smelled that one meeting — when Adam’s voice bellows through the apartment, “Keith! I’m back. You better be ready!”

Sheepishly he comes out of the bathroom, only in pants and a choker. The ends of his hair are drying and curling upwards around his face, but he doesn’t have time to mess with them.

Shiro glances over his shoulder at the sound of Adam’s muffled snort of laughter. “What kind of party are you really going to?” And Keith can hear the humor in his tone and in the soft tremble of Adam’s shoulders.

Crossing his arms over his bare chest, he looks down at his feet and mumbles, “I don’t know what to wear.”

And Shiro turns more fully to face him, rubber gloves dripping soapy water onto the floor as his face curls into that thinking face Keith hates so much. But before Shiro can have enough time to think, Adam steps forward and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Come on. I got you.”

After throwing on a white t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, the bottoms of the holes brushing against his lowest rib, he tosses on a red and black flannel, rolling up the sleeves past his elbows and hoping he looks presentable enough.

Adam smiles proudly before directing them back to the kitchen to whip up this s’mores dip. Shiro’s already got the supplies out: a couple small oven-safe ramekin bowls and a serving tray.

“Okay, I will be impressed if you manage to fuck this up,” Adam mumbles much to Shiro chagrin.  


꧁❤꧂

  
“Remember that you can pop them in the microwave for a minute to heat them up!” Adam declares while shoving the tray into Keith's arms with a wide smile.

They finished only minutes before Keith was supposed to leave.

He can smell the cologne on the collar of his flannel, and it almost smells unnatural — all wood smoke and pine — but he doesn’t dwell on why he decided to wear it after leaving it abandoned on the back of his shelf for years.

“Also, you can call to have one of us pick you up if you —”

“No,” Keith cuts off Shiro with a grimace. “I’m never drinking again.”

Adam’s laugh follows him out of the apartment and into the bitter chill of the autumn air.

He’s just barely shut the door behind him when he hears Shiro say, “Adam, you don’t think —”

But Keith walks away before he can hear more, because he already knows what his brother is going to say, already knows how wrong it is.

But he can’t stop the clawing want that gnaws on his ribs and latches onto his heart. No matter the contrasting colors of his eyes.  


꧁❤꧂

  
The GPS on his phone directs him towards Vrepit Sal’s, and Keith begins to worry that this was just some ploy to get him to go to the bar again. His fingers tap rapidly on the steering wheel as the radio plays some synthesized pop tune that’s taken over the billboards recently. Glancing to his right, he checks that the s’more dip hasn’t shifted on the passenger seat or toppled to the car floor, ruining all of Adam’s generous help and making it impossible to ever borrow Shiro’s car again.

Straightening in his seat, Keith pulls onto a small residential street rather than continuing towards Vrepit Sal’s, and the atmosphere feels so different from the rest of the city. Trees line the sidewalks and a busy park sits on a street corner with children playing in the nice autumn weather. It’s like a breath of fresh air from the apartment Keith lives in with Shiro and Adam, nestled in the heart of the city.

After parallel parking a block away from Hunk and Lance’s apartment, Keith grabs the dessert and marches down the dimming sidewalks. The street lamps are on, a golden yellow glow that makes this area seem so otherworldly compared to the rest of the city — so quiet and secluded even though it’s a mere five blocks away from one of the busiest streets in the city.

The door is a bright red, set in a building of tan brick and crumbling grout. Walking up the small stoop, Keith knocks on the door and in a second it’s pulled out from under his fingers.

Lance is standing before him, a small dust of perspiration on his brow. He’s wearing a short-sleeved collared shirt that fades from a dark blue to a white at the hem, and before Keith can let himself get lost in the tousled nature of Lance’s hair, he’s ushered inside.

Glancing around, they’re in a small hallway with wooden floors and a curling staircase at the end.

“We’re right here,” Lance announces, stepping to the door on the right of the hall and opening the door to a bustling apartment.

And suddenly Keith’s submerged in the middle of a whole group of people — several who were sitting on the couch and having conversation while others are in the kitchen on the far side of the room, all of which are interrupted as Lance clears his throat, “Everyone this is Keith!”

Keith waves and that’s it before the room hums a response and returns to its normal level of conversation. 

“I, uh, made this,” Keith stamers as he shoves the tray forward against Lance’s chest.

Without taking it from his hands, Lance peels the edge of the plastic wrap covering one of the ramkins of s’mores dip. He raises a single eyebrow and asks, “What is it?”

“S’mores dip.”

“That sounds amazing,” Lance comments and quickly pulls his hand back as if fighting the temptation to try it. And for some reason, the thought of Lance wanting to eat what Keith made warms the embers in his stomach. “Hunk will love it!”

In a second, Lance is grabbing him by the hand and dragging him through the apartment to the kitchen — graham crackers threatening to fall off the tray with the force at which Lance pulls him.

“You can leave the tray here.” Lance motions to the entire counter that is covered in different, half-eaten dishes. “I think Hunk is upstairs, so I’m going to grab him. He likes to think it’s okay to hide in other rooms even though it’s his party.” Lance shakes his head and rolls his eyes like this is a relatable problem, before he saunters away, leaving Keith in the middle of the room with no one he knows.

Great.

He props the tray under one arm and struggles to clear a space on the counter, but the second he shifts something, another dish threatens to topple to the floor. When he almost has enough room, he begins to push the platter onto the counter. However, the tray is a little wider than he accounts for. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches a green bowl teeter on the edge of the counter, cookies shifting within.

Before he can reach to catch it, pale hands pull it from the edge.

With a sigh, he stops fighting with the dishes and plops the s’mores dish on the stove top behind him. Flashing the person a shy smile, Keith fumbles through an apology, “Sorry about that. I didn’t —”

“It’s not your fault Hunk is the biggest foodie known to mankind.” They shrug, and Keith finally catches a glimpse of their face: honey-colored hair and wide chestnut eyes, a matching shade like leaves at the cusp of autumn, bright and almost iridescent.

But there’s something so familiar in their button nose and round glasses, that almost hide the matching glint to their eyes.

“Matt?” Keith questions, looking the person over and their short stature. They look identical to Shiro and Adam’s friend, but at the same time, there’s something so different about their appearance.

A scowl transforms their face before an arm is propped on their head, and Keith’s eyes are drawn to Matt leaning on his miniature doppelganger. One of his eyes is an amber shade of chestnut, like sunlight filtering through almost fallen leaves, while the other is a glittering emerald green.

“Keith! I see you’ve met Pidge,” Matt chuckles, quickly shifting his arms into a strangling hug while ruffling his younger sibling’s hair.

“Oh, sorry about that.” Keith extends a hand just as soon as Pidge shoulders out of Matt’s hold, readjusting their glasses and straightening out their shirt. “It’s nice to meet you, Pidge.”

As soon as they fit their small hand in his grip, he feels like he’s being examined — and not in the way that people look at the mismatching color of his eyes. It’s almost like he’s being interviewed without the need for questions.

“Are you Lance’s Keith? Or Shiro’s Keith?”

“Uh, both?” Keith drops his hand back to his side as his voice furls in confusion.

Pidge’s lips part as if they’ve solved a problem. But before he can even ponder their statement, Lance’s voice cuts through the soft din of conversation around them.

“Okay, Pidge. No need to interrogate my new friend.” He dramatically leans over the counter of food, only to stage whisper at them. “He won’t come back if you’re mean.” They look offended before crossing their arms, and Lance sends Keith a conspiratorial wink that sends a shiver up the length of his spine.

Lance turns behind him to look at the small staircase winding to the second floor as if he expects Hunk to be following right behind him. But instead, there’s a stiff tension that settles between their small group as if no one has any idea what to say.

“So,” Lance drawls, sharply turning back to face Keith, “do you want a beer or something?”

Keith’s expression must have conveyed his “enthusiasm” at that offer because Pidge bursts into laughter. “I’m pretty sure that after Tuesday I’ve had enough alcohol for a lifetime,” Keith grumbles.

“Lance,” a feminine voice silences all conversation with a familiar accent that Keith identifies before he sees her mane of silver hair, like drifting starlight, and meets her cotton candy gaze, “are you corrupting our newest member?” Allura plants a hand on her hip, cocking it to the side as she glances over Lance’s hunched form.

Rearranging his posture to lean against the counter and look casual rather than guilty, Lance answers, “Of course not, Allura.”

But her gaze darts to Keith, and he’s been weak under that stare since their first meeting. He feels himself mumbling, “He took me to Vrepit Sal’s.”

“Vrepit Sal’s?” There’s indignance in Allura’s tone as her alcohol-tinted cheeks grow a little bit darker. “You couldn’t even take him to a nice bar, Lance?”

“Well, he got to meet Hunk so it wasn’t all that bad!” Lance begins, looking over his shoulder at Keith — and rather than sending him a pleading gaze like Keith suspects, Lance’s gaze is hard and almost snapping at him to get with the program. But there’s a teasing curl to his lips that Keith can’t look away from.

Leaning in close enough that Keith almost brushes Lance’s ear with his lips, he whispers, “If you didn’t want to get in trouble, why’d you invite her?” His tone is playful as he dutifully ignores the strange rhythm of his heart.

“Hunk and I have known her since college, way before group and all that shit, so like I couldn’t _not_ invite her, you know?” Lance’s voice is barely considered a whisper, but glancing over Lance’s shoulder, Keith can see that Allura has already fallen back into conversation with a young blonde girl.

Keith has known Lance for a little more than three months, but he feels like he barely knows anything about him. And Keith’s so desperate to learn. But before the conversation can continue, thundering steps sound down the stairs and Hunk emerges in a bright yellow button-up that accents the yellow of one of his eyes.

“Happy Birthday, buddy!” Lance calls out, wrapping his arms around his best friend’s waist and tugging laughter from the other boy.

“Thanks for coming,” Hunk begins while patting Lance firmly on the shoulder. His smile is so bright that Keith feels that coming tonight was the right decision, no matter how awkward the conversation was before.

He smiles in return, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. But he can’t fight the way he feels so foreign in this group of people so well acquainted with each other.

Hunk is pulled into conversation with Allura as they pile their plates with small portions of food to taste. And Keith stands in front of the stove as if to hide his pathetic dessert from the ones displayed before the birthday boy. Even though his heart aches to hide something he was kind of proud of — but he can’t stop the spiral of negative thoughts that threaten to drown him.

Lance bumps him slightly with his hip to open the fridge. Sending him a large smile, he pulls out a beer, opens it on the countertop and chugs a hearty sip before sighing with contentment.

“I have no idea how you’re drinking right now,” Keith mumbles, crossing his arms a little tighter against his chest and eyeing the way the beer bubbles against the glass.

“Tuesday night was nothing for me, man. You’re just a lightweight.” Lance smiles around the bottle pressed to his lips.

Keith parts his lips to retort with a comeback, something stinging and playful, but Lance cuts him off, one hand cupped by his lips as he yells to Hunk, “Hunk! Don’t forget the s’mores dip Keith made over here.”

He watches the way Hunk’s expression lights up at the mention of dessert. After giving Lance a thumbs up, he turns back to conversation with Allura, nestled on the couch with several other people Keith hasn’t met yet.

He closes his parted lips and chews on the side of his cheek.

“Don’t think I missed how you tried to hide it from Hunk,” Lance jokes, bumping his shoulder with Keith’s. Without another moment of hesitation, Lance guides Keith to the side and takes a large glob of the dip on a graham cracker, moaning around the bite as he tastes it. “Never mind, Hunk. I’ll just eat it for you.” Lance jokes as flakes of graham crackers stick to his lips.

Hunk stands up abruptly with a firm set to his features. “Don’t you dare, Lance!”

Keith can’t stop the laughter that bubbles from his chest as Lance grabs the tray and attempts to run upstairs with it. Hunk catches him before he can even exit the kitchen — having jumped over the back of the couch with nimble ability that isn’t belied by his size. The birthday boy snatches the tray from Lance’s grip and brings it to the coffee table with a playful smirk.

Lance just shrugs, reaching back for his beer without knowing how much a little action like that means to Keith.

With the gentle tug on his wrist, Keith follows Lance to the living room, nestling on the floor next to the couch, feeling the heat from Lance’s legs next to him.

And the party continues in this kind of conversation, Keith sitting on the outskirts, but everyone keeps pulling him back to the present and demanding his attention, his input, his opinion, his expertise.

It’s so refreshing that Keith’s afraid he’s becoming addicted.  


꧁❤꧂

  
He knows that if someone asked him to describe this party, He wouldn’t be able to correctly encapture how this party changed his life. How the acceptance, the openness and friendliness, was something he was so unfamiliar with that when he sat in his car to leave, he had to wait until the tears cleared from his vision. How no one had tried to befriend him like Lance had, like Hunk and Pidge and Matt and everyone that attended that party.

Not since his eyes were violet and blue, a blue that was richer than the ocean and brighter than the sky. Not since he lost his soulmate. Not since he was a child.

He knows he can’t describe it, because there are only so many words that can encapsulate the importance of friendship.  


꧁❤꧂

  


**Keith (11:32PM)**  
_Text evidence that I made it home safe, just like you asked_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (11:32PM)**  
_Glad you made it home okay!!_  
_Also that s’mores dip was so awesome that Hunk’s demanding the recipe haha_

**Keith (11:33PM)**  
_Oh, I’ll have to get it from Adam. Can I get it to you tomorrow?_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (11:35PM)**  
_Yeah, that’s totally cool, dude!!_  
_And thanks for coming tonight. It was good to see you outside of group :)_

Keith taps his fingers on the back of his phone, debating on how to phrase the words that flutter like butterflies in his chest. He’s flopped over the arm of the couch, holding the phone far above his head.

Squeezing his eyes closed, he just types what he’s thinking and hits send without a second thought.

**Keith (11:41PM)**  
_Thanks for having me. I actually had a great time._

Thank god for autocorrect.

But the second Keith takes to read over the message, blush settles on his cheeks, because that was embarrassing.

The sudden buzz of his phone almost makes Keith drop it onto his face. But at the sight of Lance’s message, his fingers squeeze the phone so tightly it shakes.

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (11:42PM)**  
_Glad you could make it!_

Biting his bottom lip, Keith fights the small smile that pulls at the corner of his lips.

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (11:43PM)**  
_We’re going bowling Wednesday night if you want to join us! One of our bowling regulars hurt his knee so he stopped coming, which means we have an opening for a MCR wannabe_

**Keith (11:44PM)**  
_I’m not sure if I should be offended or not_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (11:44PM)**  
_No offense intended, Keithy boy_  
_— just the truth! Hahaha_

**Keith (11:46PM)**  
_Well you wouldn’t want me on your bowling team anyway_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (11:49PM)**  
_And why’s that?_  
_No one can bowl worse than Pidge if that’s what you’re worried about_

**Keith (11:53PM)**  
_Oh no. I just don’t want to bruise your ego when I destroy you_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (11:55PM)**  
_OH IT’S ON KOGANE_  
_YOU HAVE TO COME NOW_  
_YOU’VE ISSUED A CHALLENGE_

**Keith (11:56PM)**  
_I don’t think it’ll be a challenge haha_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (11:56PM)**  
_We’ll just have to wait and see then, won’t we???_

**Keith (11:57PM)**  
_Should I bring you tissues before or after?_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (11:58PM)**  
_How about foR YOURSELF?!?_

And Keith can’t stop the ugly snort of laughter that echoes in the quiet apartment.  


꧁❤꧂

  
It’s almost weird to see Lance lounging in one of those uncomfortable chairs at group. Keith has only seen him twice outside of therapy, and somehow he’s become accustomed to it. And he isn’t sure when that happened, but now he’s desperate for bowling to see Lance out of this fluorescent lighting and the damp scent of Irish pine.

But Lance smiles, and Keith smiles back and somehow group feels a little lighter this week.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Keith casually dresses a little nicer, a jean jacket with faded pockets and black joggers that cinch up his calves, and hopes Shiro doesn’t notice. Walking to the door, Keith cringes when he hears his best friend’s voice echo across the apartment.

Shiro is standing on the threshold, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe from the kitchen with a smirk curling his lips.

“Where are you off to?”

“Uh, the store?” Keith fumbles, hating the burn of blush on the apples of his cheeks.

Shiro raises an eyebrow and chuckles under his breath. “Wanna try again?” Keith ducks his chin and pouts, ignoring Shiro’s rising laughter and logical statements. “Those are your ‘sexy, not-lounge lounge pants.’ You only wear them when you want to look hot but not like you’re trying too hard. My only question is where are you going to try and pick up guys.”

“I’m not trying to pick up anyone,” Keith mumbles. “Lance invited me to go bowling, so yeah.”

Shiro’s face fluctuates through a series of emotions that Keith can’t place before his expression settles into confusion — that familiar face of Shiro thinking. And Keith is already yanking open the door before his brother has time to think.

“Love ya, see ya later!”

“Keith —”

Marching to his bike, Keith refuses to look back in case Shiro has decided to follow him out of the building.

After strapping on his helmet, he peels out of the parking lot on his motorcycle, going faster than the speed limit and enjoying the way that the wind whips against his body. It’s exhilarating and dangerously addictive. 

The bowling alley is too close for comfort. When Keith pulls into the parking lot, his blood is still thrumming with excess adrenaline. He immediately looks for Lance’s car, hoping that his friend is already here and he won’t have to interact with people he barely knows. Alone.

“Keith,” a voice calls the second Keith climbs off his motorcycle.

Turning around, Keith catches a glint of golden blonde hair before it ducks behind a vehicle and disappears. “Pidge, I’m guessing that’s you, because I can’t see you over the cars.”

Hunk’s laughter rumbles through the parking lot, immediately drawing Keith’s attention to the man jogging between the parked cars. One of his large hands claps Keith on the shoulder, and Keith fights the wince of pain that lances through him at the force.

“Glad you could make it, dude,” Hunk says.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Pidge grumbles, appearing behind Keith and making him jump with surprise. “Lance said he’s pretty good at bowling.”

Turning around sharply, Keith opens his lips to say something, when Allura’s voice, so familiar that goosebumps travel the length of his skin, sounds from across the parking lot, “Keith! What a pleasure to see you.”

Then it is a whirlwind of introductions to people he already met at the party and whose names he had consequently forgotten. They walk into the bowling alley to see Lance already standing by the lane with a ball propped on his hip.

“‘About time you all got here!” he shouts with a vibrant smile that’s even cockier than his texts. And Keith can’t wait to wipe it off his face.

After putting on his shoes and picking out the perfect ball, Keith orders a soda and waits. Pidge slides into the seat next to him while they watch Lance and Allura plug in all of the group member’s names to the lane’s computer.

“So can you really bowl?” Pidge’s voice is a soft mumble, almost lost under the conversation of the others.

“Kinda.” Keith shrugs, fighting the way his eyes linger on Lance’s cocked hip and bright smile. “I accidentally won a bowling competition once.”

“How do you accidentally —”

“Alright!” Lance claps his hands, drawing the attention of every member of their group. “A warm welcome to our newest bowling member, Keith.” Lance motions to Keith and even though everyone has already met him in the parking lot, their eyes settle on him. After Keith gives them all a little wave, Lance continues, “Remember to give him our best group welcome!”

Pidge’s smile turns mischievous, and Keith can’t fight the shiver that courses up his spine at the sight.

What the hell is this group welcome?

“Let’s go!” Lance cheers.

Everyone raises their soda or their bowling ball or their fist in a cheer before Lance grabs a ball and bowls a strike without even looking.

Keith can’t fight the way his lips part in shock, before turning a vengeful glare on Pidge while she snickers.

Nyma and Rolo are a couple that Keith barely met at Hunk’s party. They mainly keep to themselves, chiming in a couple times with funny and outlandish stories. And it seems like the Holt siblings are intent on interrogating Keith, Matt sitting on one side of him with Pidge on the other.

Lance never sits down, either he’s bowling or standing, hip bopping to the beat of the music blasting across the lanes. His energy is infectious, and somehow Keith can’t stop his eyes from drifting to Lance.

“So Keith,” Matt’s voice is quiet under the sound of clattering pins and old country music, “you went to Vrepit Sal’s last Tuesday, right?”

Pidge hums in agreement, turning a little to face Keith more easily. The weight of their stares is heavy as Keith nods.

“Yeah. Lance took me after, uh,” and Keith pauses, because he’s not sure if Lance’s friends know about group.

“Group therapy, yeah. Don’t worry, Lance can’t keep his mouth shut about anything,” Pidge laughs, comforting Keith, but before they can ask anymore questions, Keith realizes it’s his turn to bowl.

Nodding to the lane, he stands up and brushes his slightly sweaty hands off on his thighs. “It’s my turn.”

Lance is leaning against the ball return, and the smile he’s wearing is so smug that Keith wishes he had the skills to wipe it off Lance’s face. But Lance is winning by a clear thirty points, and Keith is only at the middle of the pack. Crossing his arms, Lance says, “Wow, you’re really wiping the floor with me, Keith.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.” Keith holds up his bowling ball and rolls it straight down the middle of the alley, knocking down eight pins with the two still standing nestled in one corner. “How was I supposed to know you’re some kind of bowling prodigy?”

“So you’re admitting defeat?” Lance’s smile can’t seem to get any bigger.

“You wish,” Keith mumbles as he leans past Lance to grab his returning ball. He can almost smell that cologne, all clove and sea salt. He wonders if the one he put on today smells weird, because Lance’s is so natural that Keith almost wonders if he’s not wearing anything at all.

Giving Lance a steely expression, Keith bowls a spare, knocking down the two remaining pins with little fanfare.

“Oooh, are you finally getting serious, Kogane?”

And Keith only responds by smirking in return.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Lance maintains his thirty point margin and wins to the tune of unenthusiastic clapping. But Keith is proud that he managed to crawl up to third place, just behind Nyma.

Afterward, Lance takes a picture of the scores, showing it to Keith on his phone with the description of “blackmail.”

But Keith can’t stop his smile, and he can’t wait for next month when they can all go bowling again.

He knows it’s horrible to hope that their other member doesn’t come back, but Keith didn’t know how desperately he would want to keep these people near him. How he feels so achingly good with people that respect him, that don’t meet his eyes and cringe, that don’t claim he’s broken and worthless before they’ve even spoken.

꧁❤꧂

**Lance✨💙🦈 (9:12PM)**  
_[winnerwinnerchickendinner.jpg]_  
_Just thought I should remind you of your horrific loss_

**Keith (9:14PM)**  
_I got third place! That’s not bad_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (9:14PM)**  
_Whatever you say, loser :P_

  


꧁❤꧂

  


**Lance✨💙🦈 (11:27PM)**  
_Have you ever watched the Ted Bundy Tapes_  
_idk why but I feel like you would be into true crime_

**Keith (11:28PM)**  
_Nah, I’ve never really been interested in that kind of stuff_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (11:28PM)**  
_Well Pidge made Hunk and I watch it_  
_and now we’re both huddled up on the couch with all the lights on_  
_like I can take horror movies because obviously those aren’t real_  
_But HE WAS AN ACTUAL SERIAL KILLER, KEITH_

**Keith (11:29PM)**  
_Didn’t he only kill women?_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (11:30PM)**  
_THAT’S BESIDES THE POINT!_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (11:35PM)**  
_You’ll have to come to our movie night next time, because then we’ll have the majority  
and we can finally pick good movies_

**Keith (11:39PM)**  
_Weren’t there three of you?_  
_You should’ve had the majority if both you and Hunk didn’t want to watch it_

 **Lance✨💙🦈(11:40PM)**  
_I may have been convinced that I could handle it. . ._

**Keith (11:41PM)**  
_Hahaha_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (11:42PM)**  
_But you should actually come next time!_  
_I’ll remember to text you if you’re interested_

**Keith (11:45PM)**  
_Yeah, that sounds nice. As long as I don’t have training the next day._

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (11:45PM)**  
_YAY!_

  


꧁❤꧂

  


**Keith (3:26PM)**  
_Oh my god_  
_Shiro just texted me this and I knew you had to see it_  
_[kitchendisaster.jpg]_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (3:45PM)**  
_WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOUR KITCHEN???_

**Keith (3:46PM)**  
_He didn’t release the pressure on the pressure cooker the right way_  
_(or so Adam said)_  
_And now there’s bits of food all over the kitchen_  
_And in Shiro’s hair_  
_[shirokitchendisaster.jpg]_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (3:49PM)**  
_That is priceless! Hahaha_  
_You need to frame that picture_

**Keith (3:50PM)**  
_If I had a desk, it would already be hanging up haha_

  


꧁❤꧂

  
And soon, texting Lance becomes an everyday thing, and Keith can’t help his smile every time he sees a message.

꧁❤꧂

**Keith (11:09AM)**  
_So Acxa just told me that I get four VIP tickets for my next fight, and I didn’t know if you were interested_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (11:32AM)**  
_Oh, what date?_  
_Also, what’s your wrestling name so I can google it?_

 **Keith (11:38AM)**  
_It’s on December 2nd, and my nickname is the red paladin_

 **Keith (11:45AM)**  
_It may not be coming up if you’re googling wrestling, because I fight MMA, and it’s different haha_

 **Keith (1:36PM)**  
_Lance?_  
_You don’t have to feel obligated to come, you know? I just thought I would ask_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (2:06PM)**  
_Why didn’t you tell me you were famous?_

 **Keith (2:06PM)**  
_What?_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (2:07PM)**  
_You’re famous! I looked you up and all of a sudden there are a million articles talking about the titles you’ve won_  
_Like dude, you’re listed in wikipedia’s MMA champions_  
_You have your own wikipedia page!!_  
_Bro_  
_I know a famous person (☆◡☆)_

 **Keith (2:10PM)**  
_I’m not famous_  
_Maybe well-known. . .ish, but not famous_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (2:11PM)**  
_This isn’t a debate :P_  
_Also, sorry for keeping you waiting, but hell yeah I’ll go!!_

 **Keith (2:15PM)**  
_Great!_

  


꧁❤꧂

  


**Lance✨💙🦈 (5:44PM)**  
_[Nadias3rdbday.jpg]_  
_Look at how cute my niblings are!! <3 <3 <3_

 **Keith (5:45PM)**  
_Niblings?_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (5:45PM)**  
_My niece and nephew! You know, niblings!!_  
_Nadia just turned three <3_

 **Keith (5:46PM)**  
_I’m pretty sure that’s not a word_  
_But happy birthday_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (5:47PM)**  
_I’ll tell her you said so!! :)_

  


꧁❤꧂

  


**Keith (8:11AM)**  
_Here’s the VIP ticket_  
_[redpaladinVSrampage_VIP.jpg]_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (10:23AM)**  
_YAY! I’m so excited! Less than three months away!!_

  


꧁❤꧂

  


**Lance✨💙🦈 (4:09PM)**  
_Oh, I forgot to tell you at group yesterday, but Hunk and I are hosting a Halloween party next weekend and you’re invited :)_  
_Shiro and Adam are invited too_

 **Keith (4:15PM)**  
_Do I have to dress up?_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (4:16PM)**  
_If I say costumes are mandatory will you still come?_

 **Keith (4:18PM)**  
_Maybe._

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (4:20PM)**  
_No costume, no party_  
_Sorry, halloween house rules haha_

  


꧁❤꧂

  


**Lance✨💙🦈 (3:33PM)**  
_Excuse me, but why did I have to find out through Pidge that it was your birthday yesterday?_

 **Keith (3:40PM)**  
_Oh, well it’s not really a big deal_  
_I don’t really celebrate_  
_Like yesterday Shiro got me a bran muffin and put a candle in it_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (3:42PM)**  
_Still (ಥ﹏ಥ)_  
_I wish I could’ve at least texted you on your birthday_  
_But happy belated birthday!!_

 **Keith (3:45PM)**  
_Thanks, Lance :)_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (3:48PM)**  
_No problem! It’s literally the least I can do_  
_Next year I’ll convince you to have a party or something_

 **Keith (3:50PM)**  
_That’s not likely_  
_I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not really a party person_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (3:51PM)**  
_I have my ways, Keith_  
_I have my ways._

  


꧁❤꧂

  


**Lance✨💙🦈 (1:57AM)**  
_How great of a halloween costume is this?_  
_amazon.com/wrestler-in-red_  
_I would kinda look like the red paladin!!_

 **Keith (5:01AM)**  
_I will take back my RSVP if you wear that thing_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (9:13AM)**  
_Fiiiiine_  
_I’ll remove it from my amazon cart_

  


꧁❤꧂

  


**Lance✨💙🦈 (3:27AM)**  
_hey Keith, I know you probably won’t get this until later_  
_but idk_  
_never mind_

 **Keith (4:38AM)**  
_Hey, I just woke up for training_ _Everything okay?_

 **Keith (4:42AM)**  
_You fall asleep or something?_

 **Lance✨💙🦈 (4:44AM)**  
_I’m up, but don’t worry about it_  
_I promise everything is okay_

Keith is sipping from the orange juice carton when he sees Lance’s text. He knows it’s not unusual for Lance to text him in the middle of the night. But it’s normally a meme or a joke or a video that Keith is supposed to watch the next day. It’s never been anything like this.

Without giving himself the chance to hesitate, Keith hits Lance’s contact and swallows harshly at the harsh ringing that echoes through the phone.

“Hello?” Lance’s voice is gravely in his ear, and Keith blushes at the sound.

He hadn’t hesitated to call Lance, but now he thinks that maybe he should’ve. If he closes his eyes, he can almost picture himself lying next to Lance, smelling his cologne and listening to his sleepy voice.

“Yeah,” Keith coughs, clearing his throat. “Hey Lance. It’s Keith. Is everything okay?”

After pinning his phone between his shoulder and his ear, Keith screws the cap on the orange juice and pulls out the ingredients for his protein shake.

“Oh, yeah. Everything’s fine. Sorry to bother you so late.”

But there’s something to Lance’s voice, and Keith knows that if he just takes Lance for his word that he’ll be thinking about it all practice. And maybe he wants to be there for Lance — maybe he liked that late night text a little more than he wants.

“Lance, obviously something’s wrong.” He’s measuring out the protein powder, but his mind is elsewhere, listening for subtle cues from Lance. “You can talk to me, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” It almost sounds like Lance’s is shaking his head before a soft sigh rings through the phone. “I just had a nightmare, but I’m really feeling better. Thank you though, Keith!” There’s this cheery edge to Lance’s voice that Keith might have believed if he hadn’t been sitting next to him in group therapy for months.

Even though Lance seems to be the most carefree of all of the members, Keith knows it’s a shield. Sometimes at group Lance will let it falter and there will be a darkness in his eyes that Keith has seen before in his own. Allura always pushes for them to be open, but she’s as patient as Lance is stubborn.

But Keith isn’t patient.

“What was the nightmare about? Ted Bundy?” Keith chuckles, remembering how Lance and Hunk slept in the living room with the lights on after watching the documentary series.

Lance snorts a huff of laughter into the phone, and it makes Keith’s toes curl. The sarcasm is thick in his tone when he speaks, “Ha. Ha. That’s soooo funny. But no, it wasn’t about Ted Bundy. It—it— what is that noise?”

Keith pauses, realizing that while his mind has been focusing on Lance, his hands have been going about his normal morning routine. The ball within the shaker bottle settles at the bottom with a soft thud. “Oh, I was making my protein shake.”

“Aren’t they disgusting?”

“You kind of get used to them.” Keith shrugs, shifting his phone to his other shoulder. “Acxa also gave me some recipes on how to make them better.”

“Does that mean more palatable or better for you?”

Keith chuckles and takes a loud sip into the microphone of the phone. “Thankfully both.”

“Disgusting,” Lance says, but there’s a lightness to his tone that Keith hadn’t heard before, and he’s relieved. “Do you put raw eggs in there? Are you going to get salmonella?”

Keith rolls his eyes as he pulls out a stool from their breakfast bar and settles into it. Grabbing hold of his phone, he sits up straight and takes another sip of his shake. “Enough about my protein shake. Are you sure you’re feeling better?”

“Yeah, I—”

“Lance,” Keith admonishes.

“Seriously, I am feeling better.” His tone is indignant, and Keith can hear him shuffling his sheets. Maybe he’s sitting up or maybe he’s burrowing deeper, and Keith can’t stand the thought of Lance curling in on himself and pretending he’s okay for Keith’s sake.

“Shiro’s always says that it’s best to talk about stuff like this.”

Lance sighs, and his tone sounds like he’s waiting for a lecture he’s been given a million times before. “Yeah.”

“I understand if you don’t want to talk to me about it, but you should talk to someone. Allura is always willing to listen.” Keith grits his teeth and fights heaving a sigh. Rubbing at his eyes, he realizes why he’s never sort of done this thing before — he’s terrible at it.

“No one else understands though.” Lance’s voice is a whisper, almost lost through the tininess of the phone.

All Keith can picture are Lance’s two grey eyes, the ones that tell his life story: he met his soulmate only to lose them too soon.

“Try me.”

“It—it—” Lance’s voice goes strained, tight as if he’s struggling to find the right words, “—it was about Cyn...Cynthia, my soulmate.”

Keith swallows harshly and the plastic water bottle whines under the force he’s squeezing it. He’s never even heard the name of Lance’s soulmate before, not even at group. And he’s suddenly realizing, he knows nothing about her, because for as much as Lance talks, he says very little.

Humming in response, Keith spurs Lance onward without words.

“She was — I got the phone call all over again, in the nightmare. She was out getting groceries when I got this call. From the hospital. And they’re saying that Cyn’s been admitted, because she was in a car crash — a fucking car crash. But before I can even leave the fucking house, my eyes go grey and I just know.

“I had everything one second, and then the next, it was all gone.”

Lance’s voice is on the verge of tears, and Keith hears his sniffles. Keith parts his lips but closes them, because he has no idea what to say.

The last thing Lance says is a whisper, “I only had her for three months.”

A silence settles between them, familiar and cloying and Keith can almost feel the way those dress shoes bit into his toes at his father’s funeral. It’s a dark and oppressive thing that sits between them, grief heavy enough to sink a million ships, wide enough to fill a million oceans.

“When my dad died, my mom said that we have to cherish all the memories we still have. It — it takes time to be able to look back with appreciation, but it’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to miss them. We should be grateful for the time we had, or so she said.” He chuckles a little and takes several large gulps of his shake as if that will wash away the taste of swallowed tears. “It’s a little harder in practice, but — but I think we all get there eventually, even if we feel like we’re standing still while the world is moving on around us.”

“Keith,” Lance begins, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think—”

“Hey,” Keith cuts Lance off, stops him before he can spiral. It makes him think of that first day at group, and Lance’s warm hand on his shoulder, his warm smile, his warm words. “Another wise man told me, ‘you can’t diminish your grief just because you think someone else has it worse.’”

Lance’s laugh is bright while its edges stay watery like he’s laughing through tears. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

There’s a breath between them, a momentary silence where they gather their thoughts. Compared to the one just minutes before, it’s warm and comforting.

“Thanks, Keith. I’m actually feeling a little better now.”

“That’s good to hear.” Keith hides his smile with the last few sips of his protein shake.

“And thanks for talking. I hope I didn’t hold up your training.”

Keith can’t help his smile this time as he tugs on his running shoes. Tapping the toe of his shoes against the ground, Keith rolls out his shoulders. “You’re fine. I’m just glad I could help.”

“Yeah,” Lance says, but he yawns in the middle of the word, stretching it out and making a yawn pull at the corner of Keith’s lips. “I think I’m actually going to get some sleep now. Night Keith.”

“Bye, Lance.”

Keith hangs up and glances at the clock on his phone’s display. Choking back surprise, Keith rushes from the house and ends up only being ten minutes late to training. But by Acxa’s serious look, he knows that’s not going to cut it.

Acxa grinds him into the ground, wearing him out until his muscles burn and scream for relief.

But it was worth it to help Lance. Even if it was just a little bit.  


꧁❤꧂

  


**Lance✨💙🦈 (12:29PM)**  
_Thanks again <3_

 **Keith (1:42PM)**  
_Anytime_

And he means it. By god, does he mean it.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure all of you that are reading this fic are absolutely crying over how beautiful Elle's art is, because I did the same!! So as a wonderful reminder that all of the art for this Big Bang was done by the amazing Elle Gee!! (≧◡≦) ♡ Please check her out and give her all the love she deserves on her [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/ellegee2018/?hl=en), [twitter](https://twitter.com/ellegee2018), and [tumblr](https://ellegee2018.tumblr.com/)!!


	4. The Promise of More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small warning for this chapter:  
> This is the chapter that the tag of "Unwanted Sexual Advances" comes into play. I just wanted to give you all a warning, so please stay safe (´･ᴗ･ ` )

“I look ridiculous,” Keith grumbles, glancing down at the costume Shiro had picked up from the store. “Why couldn’t you have just gotten me fake blood like I asked?”

“Vampires are boring, Keith,” Shiro calls from the kitchen. He was bottling up the sangria they made earlier this week for Lance and Hunk’s halloween party tonight.

Keith rolls his eyes and when he looks towards the kitchen, the bell around his neck jingles. “Because sexy cats aren’t overdone either?” The sarcasm in his tone is thick enough to stab.

Shiro exits the kitchen with a shrug, but he’s wearing that grin that practically screams of mischief. The fruit bobs in the clear pitcher as Shiro sets it down on the coffee table before collapsing onto the couch. 

“Well,” Keith props his hands on his hips, “what are you guys wearing then?” When he nods his head at Shiro, the cat ears perched atop shift with his movement.

“Ta-da!” Adam steps out of the bathroom wearing green face paint and those plastic wounds you buy from a pop-up halloween store. Jutting out of his neck are two enormous screws, and Keith can’t help but smile. From far enough away, with his tattered clothes and the wild mess he’s styled his hair into, Adam looks like a pretty good Frankenstein's monster.

Shiro’s smiling just as wide. “You look great, babe.”

Adam tosses Shiro a lab coat and some comically sized safety goggles. Donning the ensemble, Shiro drapes an arm over Adam’s shoulders and smirks playfully. “Don’t we make the perfect Dr. Frankenstein and his monster?”

Tilting his head to the side, Keith can’t fight off his grin. “Aren’t you supposed to dress up for halloween?”

“Wha—” Adam begins before he gets the joke. “Keith!”

But Shiro has doubled over laughing, one hand clutching on the sofa for support while the other is clasped around his waist. 

Adam’s gaze turns steely before a mischievousness pulls at the corners of his lips. “At least I’m not wearing a sexy cat costume.”

Keith rips the headband off and throws it onto the coffee table. “Neither of us are. Because I swear to god, I’m not wearing that.”  


꧁❤꧂

  
But he does, and he can only blame himself.  


꧁❤꧂

  
He’s feeling self conscious the second they leave the apartment, desperate to return and change his shirt or his whole costume or _something_.

He’s wearing the tightest black jeans he owns, the ones that make his ass look good. And if that weren’t enough, Adam insisted that Keith wear this black tank top he’d borrowed from his sister. It was only after Keith put it on that he realized the leather accents on the shirt looked like a harness, wrapping across his chest and stretching up in thin back lines until it circled his neck.

So he isn’t sure if it was the shirt’s collar or the cat collar that itches.

Thankfully that was the only annoying part of this costume. Shiro had painted liquid eyeliner against his eyes and streaks like whiskers up his cheeks. But once it dried, it was no longer bothersome.

On his way out of the house, Adam bumps his shoulder and whispers, “You’ll definitely catch someone’s attention dressed like that. You can thank me later.”

Keith grumbles the entire way to the car. But that doesn’t stop the blush from heating his cheeks and making him think of the one person whose attention he would like tonight.  


꧁❤꧂

  
The apartment is warmer than he remembers, either due to the amount of people crammed into the space or the heat that’s rolling from the radiators. The temperature outside has dropped significantly in the past few weeks and the tenants are definitely compensating.

The girl that opened the door for them gives them a warm smile before flopping back on the couch and winding her arms around another girl with a set of matching eyes. Which leaves Keith standing on the threshold of the apartment, feeling as if he’s never truly been here before.

“Shiro! Adam! Keith!” a familiar voice calls. Through the crowd of people, Matt emerges dressed like an alien, wearing a green mesh suit that stops at his neck and an antenna that bobs on a spring when he moves his head. Giving Shiro and Adam slaps on the shoulders in welcome, Matt steps back and points both thumbs at his chest. “Isn’t my costume out of this world?”

Adam groans, but Shiro and Keith can’t fight fond smiles.

“At least let me start drinking before you make bad puns, Matt,” Adam grumbles, motioning to the pitcher of sangria in Shiro’s hands.

Leaning forward to be heard over the din of people without yelling, Shiro says, “Any place I can put this?”

“Oh, yeah. Let me show you.” Matt motions them deeper into the apartment, and Keith can’t stop the claustrophobia as he gets crushed between all these people.

His shirt feels too tight and his jeans are restrictive. The bell around his neck jingles as he looks around the room for a familiar face. But Shiro, Adam, and Matt have already disappeared into the group that’s hovering in the kitchen.

Glancing to his right, he sees the staircase Hunk had come barreling down during his birthday party.

Keith knows it’s rude to wander around someone’s house, but he’s desperate for a moment of peace. He’ll text Lance an apology later.

Climbing up the stairs, Keith turns the corner and is met with a normal-looking apartment. It’s not decorated like the first floor — no black and orange streamers or plastic bugs or fake spider webs. There are three doors upstairs, and the one at the end has a small hanging plaque that reads ‘Lance’s Room’ in bright blue, bubble letters.

He hopes the door right in front of him is the bathroom, but when he opens it, he stumbles into Hunk’s bedroom and a plume of smoke.

“Close the door,” a voice hisses.

Without thought, Keith closes the door behind him before looking around the room. Hunk’s room is filled with stuff. Gadgets line the desk in the corner, piled high and spilling from boxes visible beneath the bed. A large bookcase stands by the dresser, and Keith can tell that the books are stacked at least two deep with papers spilling from their pages. The walls are decorated with few posters, and one is dangling precariously by one corner overtop of the bed that the trio is sitting around.

Lance is lounging in the desk chair, sitting backwards and resting his arms across the back. Pidge is slumped against the corner of the bed, feet splayed out against the yellow carpeting. Perched on the end of his bed and giving a small wave, Hunk smiles ruefully.

A joint is held between Hunk’s fingers before he passes it to Pidge without meeting Keith’s gaze again.

“Hey buddy,” Lance’s voice drawls, turning to face Keith. There’s a heaviness to his eyes from the marajana and alcohol that are definitely flowing through his system. “Want a hit?”

“No, sorry. They do a bunch of drug tests before the fight, so I’d better not.” Keith scratches at the collar, suddenly feeling more suffocated than he did before.

Pidge takes a long draw from the joint before breathing out and saying, “We can put it out if you don’t feel comfortable. We’re just hiding in here so that we don’t have to share with everyone and their plus one.”

“No — it’s—”

“Here,” Lance says, interrupting whatever excuse Keith was trying to think of. He sticks a plate out in front of Pidge, and she rubs the end of the joint out until it stops smoldering.

“Oh, thanks guys,” Keith mumbles.

Hunk pats the bed next to him, inviting Keith in, inviting him into their inner circle of friends.

Keith can’t stop his smile as he walks across the room and flops down on the bed.

“Want one?” Lance asks, holding out an unopened beer. It’s a brand Keith’s never heard of, but he takes it anyway — anything to calm his nerves and make this party like the last one. “It’s kind of warm though. Sorry.” His smile is soft and his eyes seem to focus a little better when settled on Keith.

Cracking open the beer, Keith takes a sip and shrugs at its taste. “Why’re guys up here?”

“Avoiding the crowd,” Pidge comments.

Hunk gives Lance a pointed look. “Somehow our twenty person party turned into a fifty person party.”

“It’s not my fault.” Lance waves a hand, but the motions are a little sloppier than normal. “People kept asking if they could bring their friends.”

“And you didn’t know how to say no,” Pidge finishes.

“Exactly!”

Pidge rolls her eyes before tipping her head back against the bed and gazing up at Keith. “We also didn’t need everyone asking for a hit.” She motions to the joint, half finished and laying on the plate.

“I really get that.” Keith runs a hand through his hair, only for it to catch on his forgotten cat-ear headband. Setting it correctly on his head, Keith comments, “It was really crowded downstairs.”

“Tell me about it,” Lance sighs and there is obvious exhaustion in his tone. “I don’t even know why I bothered to dress up if I’m going to be hiding up here all night.”

Keith chuckles, enjoying the slight buzz that’s already starting in his toes and making his laughter come easier. “Seriously.” He elbows Hunk ready to hear Hunk’s input on the mandatory costumes, but he blinks several times and looks between Hunk and Pidge.

They’re wearing t-shirts and jeans. Admittedly, they’re slightly festive shirts; Hunk’s has a pumpkin on it and Pidge’s has a ghost saying “Boo You!”

“Wait, wait. Why aren’t they wearing costumes, Lance?” Keith points at Hunk and Pidge.

“Keith,” Lance begins, but Keith turns to look at him with a steely glare.

Only when Keith’s eyes settle on Lance does he realize that the boy is practically not wearing a costume either. He’s in dark clothing with red eyeshadow smeared across his lids and two puncture marks on his neck with a trickle of fake blood that settles on his collarbone. Lance is a vampire.

A fucking vampire.

“You said costumes were mandatory! You texted me, ‘no costume, no party,’ or something like that.” Keith fumbles for his phone, ready to present the evidence.

He’s thumbing through his messages when Lance mumbles, “I just kind of wanted to see what costume you’d wear.”

Keith tips his head back, chugging the beer until the amber liquid leaks from the corners of his mouth. Finishing the can with a sigh, Keith wipes at his lips. “Well, I wanted to be a vampire, but Adam and Shiro made me wear this stupid cat costume.”

“I don’t think you look stupid,” Lance’s voice is a whisper, almost lost over the sound of the party below them.

Keith can’t stop the way his eyes flash to Lance, the way they linger on the blush creeping up his cheeks — but it could be from the alcohol or the lingering heat in this apartment. It doesn’t have to be from his last comment.

Lance is always flirty and bright, so saying something like that wouldn’t make him flustered. So Keith swallows whatever strange hope had bubbled in his stomach. He slumps backward, listening to the jingle of the damn bell around his neck. 

“Thanks,” he grumbles, catching Lance’s gaze and giving him a small smile.

Handing him a new beer, Lance doesn’t let it go as Keith reaches for it. Their fingers touch and Keith wants to look down to see why his fingertips are burning from the slight contact, but he can’t look away from Lance’s eyes.

“You forgive me?”

Before Keith can answer, Hunk’s bedroom door opens. A crowd of people stumble in, people that Lance and Hunk are familiar with.

There’s a lot of hugs and soon they’re all dragged back downstairs into the crowded floor of the party.

The living room has become a dance floor between the people crushed onto the couches and the half-hearted game of beer pong on the coffee table. Thankfully the kitchen is being used for casual conversations which is where Keith is, leaning up against a wall — alone. He’s sipping at his third glass of sangria, or was it his fourth? And he can’t stop the way his eyes trace Lance throughout the apartment.

Maybe he’s just longing for that warm buzz from the night at Vrepit Sal’s. Because tonight, the more he drinks, the hollower he feels. His knees feel like pins and needles and there’s a fuzziness to his mind that he doesn’t mind so much.

He’s looking at the wine-stained fruit in the bottom of his cup when a throat clears in front of him.

Standing before him is a guy he’s never met. He’s at least half a foot taller than Keith and to have him standing so close makes Keith feel even more boxed in in this crowded environment. His eyes glitter, unmatched and colored like fields of poppies and molasses. They’re a little intoxicating in their strangeness. 

The stranger smiles warmly and some of Keith’s nervousness abates.

“Rolo said your name was Keith. I heard you took my place on bowling night. I’m Caster.” His voice is deep, so deep it feels like it vibrates Keith’s ribs — or maybe that’s because someone turned up the bass on the speaker in the living room.

Rather than offer to shake Keith’s hand, he offers an unopened beer, different from the brand Lance had upstairs.

Gazing over Caster’s shoulder, Keith sees Lance tipping his head back with laughter as he dances with a girl on the make-shift dance floor.

Taking the beer from Caster, Keith returns his smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“So how did you do?”

“Huh?”

“Bowling? Since you took my place and all.”

Keith fumbles with the tab of the beer, struggling to balance his red solo cup while opening the can. “I got third.”

Caster takes the beer from Keith’s hands and opens it with a crack before passing it back. “Third’s not bad with that crew.” He chuckles, and it’s as deep as his voice.

“Well, I told Lance I would wipe the floor with him, so it may not be bad, but,” Keith shrugs like that finishes his thought, because his mind is already racing to the texts he shared with Lance and the sound of his gravelly voice through the phone.

“You know Lance?”

“Mhmm.”

“I’m surprised you challenged him to bowl then. The kid’s frustratingly good.”

Keith nods, sinking against the wall for support. The buzz he’d been desperate for is really kicking in, but it’s not warm, it’s not friendly, it’s nothing like that night. And Keith’s achingly cold without that bright smile next to him.

Caster leans a forearm on the wall above Keith’s head like he’s getting comfortable. But there’s this twist to his features that Keith doesn’t like. It takes him a minute to process with the fog of alcohol clouding his mind. Caster looks hungry, almost predatory.

Suddenly, Keith’s stomach roils. He’s not sure if it’s from the excess of alcohol he’s had or the way Caster is looming over him, taking their height difference to his advantage. Keith wants to look anywhere but in Caster’s mismatched eyes, but the boy is taking up Keith’s entire field of vision.

“Yeah. Lance is competitive,” Keith mumbles, pressing the beer can against his bottom lip so he can casually hold his hands in front of his chest, like he’s getting ready to fight against the ropes.

Keith laughs at the thought, because he knows how to fight. He knows how to knock someone out with a single hit, how to shatter kneecap with a kick, how to fracture and how to bruise.

“You’re cute when you laugh,” Caster says as he lifts the hand that isn’t pressed against the wall. With the tip of his finger, he pushes the can of beer away from Keith’s lips. Strangely without the can between them, the distance feels so much closer.

With a smirking smile, Caster flicks the bell on Keith’s cat collar and somehow the soft jingle is louder than the music and Keith’s suddenly racing heart.

“A cute laugh for a cute kitty.”

“Thanks.” Keith stammers, desperate to change the topic to anything but the way this costume has been making him feel, all exposed and put on show. “Uh, so Lance said—”

Caster cuts him off as he smiles around his words, “Let’s not talk about him. Not when it’s just the two of us.”

“What?”

Caster tilts his head to the side, beginning to close the distance between them and Keith’s breath stills in his chest. “He’s over there dancing with someone else, and you’re here with me.”

“But your eyes—”

“So?”

“You haven’t found your soulmate.” Keith lifts his hands, occupied with drinks, and puts them on Caster’s shoulders, ready to push him away, to escape from this cage Caster has built with his body.

Caster’s smile is wicked, something that verges on teasing. “Everyone knows it doesn’t matter what you do before you find them. Plus some soulmates like people who’re experienced.” Caster licks his lips, and a shiver traces Keith’s spine like a tendril of ice.

“Uh, thanks for the beer.” Keith’s tone is curt, clearly done with this conversation and whatever point Caster is trying to make.

Keith tries to step around the boy, but Caster’s firm hand grips his shoulder and pushes him back up against the wall. The air whistles out of Keith’s lungs as beer sloshes out of the can. The red solo cup is crushed in his hand, leaking the dredges of sangria from cracks that split the plastic.

“Oh, come on. You might as well have fun.” Caster purrs as he meets Keith’s gaze, “We all know you’re available.”

Keith’s mouth goes dry and the drinks drop from his fingers without thought. Caster curses as the beer splatters against his pants, and he takes a step back to pick up the can before it spills all over the floor.

Using Caster’s distraction to his advantage, Keith slips away from the wall and into the crowd of people.

He breathes a sigh of relief, now thankful to be in this crowded environment. To be hidden from Caster’s hungry eyes, mismatched and vibrant.

A sticky hand grips Keith’s wrist with bruising force. And yanks.

Keith stumbles into a couple people, barely hearing the exclamations over the sound of his heart racing. Caster drags him to the edge of the group, back towards the wall. His gaze is predatory, and he’s not even bothering to hide it.

“Keith—”

“Let me go,” Keith snarls, tugging at the grip Caster has on his wrist. His voice is low and filled with malice.

But he must not seem that threatening because Caster laughs. Maybe it’s the alcohol that’s thrumming through Keith’s system or the pride Caster wears like a second skin.

“You’re such a fucking tease —”

“Caster!” a familiar voice sounds over the din of the crowd, loud and beginning to draw attention. Peering over Caster’s shoulder, Keith sees Rolo step forward, quickly followed by Nyma.

“Cas,” Nyma’s voice is soft, hoping to draw Caster from this confrontation with plying words and soft smiles, “let’s go. You’re drunk.”

Caster drops Keith’s hand to turn and face his friends with an expression of twisted rage. “He was asking for it.”

“Cas—”

“Walking around here with eyes like that and not asking to get hit on?” Caster’s voice rises over the blasting music and with each cutting word spittle falls from his lips. His face colors red, blood and heat settling in his features. He is the picture of pure rage.

People around them pause to listen, eyes wide and thirsty for drama.

Keith rubs at his wrist, still aching from the force of Caster’s grip. Gritting his teeth, Keith tries to ignore him — the stigma, the words he’s heard for so long.

“Everyone knows grey-eyes are the biggest sluts. Ready to throw themselves at anyone who’ll take them, because they weren’t good enough for a soulmate. They know that better than anyone.” Caster’s voice is filled with hate, spitting venom.

Shaking his head, Keith turns to leave, because no party is worth staying through this.

Caster’s hand slaps his ass.

The stinging sensation is the loudest thing in his buzzing body. He can still feel each of Caster’s fingers and the red mark that’s settling in beneath his jeans. Keith stops — absolutely freezes as he hears Caster’s callous laughter, “Yeah. Get that ass out of here. I’m sure you’ll be busy tonight. Do you charge a Halloween special or—”

Keith cuts Caster off with a punch to the face. At the last second, Keith pulls back, blunts his force so he wouldn’t break the bastard’s nose or his own hand against the boy’s thick skull.

Caster stumbles backward into the crowd who stops him from falling with frantic hands. Rolo turns and meets Keith’s gaze with wide eyes, but Nyma can’t hide her smile in her shocked expression.

“Keith?” Lance’s voice rises from the living room at Keith’s back. But Keith can’t take his eyes off Caster, can’t stop hearing the words ringing in his mind.

His blood is humming in his veins, and he feels so alive. It’s like he’s back in the ring, but there are no rules. And that thought is thrilling.

“You soulless bitch,” Caster growls, stumbling to regain his balance. Using the back of his hand, Caster wipes at the blood that’s trickling from his split lip.

“You’re a sick bastard,” Keith spits, sinking lower in his fighting stance as Caster regains his footing.

Rolo’s hands are gripping into Caster’s shoulders, attempting to hold him back. But Keith doesn’t know if it’s for his sake or Caster’s. Because Keith knows he could wipe the floor with this sack of shit, knows he might even enjoy it.

But he catches sight of Shiro and Adam pushing to the front of the crowd, wearing matching looks of concern and worry.

Before Keith can lower his fists, before he can remove himself from the situation, Caster snarls, “You know what? Your soulmate’s lucky they never had to meet you.”

Keith sees red.

It’s like a moment in the ring, where everything slows down and he can only feel his body when it makes contact with his opponent. His focus narrows down to his awareness of their body, the fluctuation of their muscles and the spittle that flies from their lips.

Caster charges with one hand swinging wide from the side. With practiced ease, Keith flips Caster over his shoulder and into the coffee table.

His senses relax to the sound of shattering and the splash of crushed drinks and the silence that follows surprised screams.

Splinters of wood cascade against his shoes. Caster’s body relaxes with a groan of pain, and suddenly the room is alight with noise. People crowd around Caster, pulling his body from the remains of the coffee table. His back is stained with drinks that lay crushed into the carpet.

People are talking, congratulations and cheers, but also hurtful jeers that ring to the same tune Caster was spouting. It’s a cacophony of noise. And Keith is right in the center of it.

Caster stumbles to his feet and glances over his shoulder at Keith, eyes wide and lips parted.

“Fucking asshole,” Keith growls before marching up the stairs, because he’s desperate to escape and it’s the only place he can think of right now.

“Keith!” Shiro’s voice follows him. A faint call in the wild noise of the party.

Keith keeps moving. Because if he stops, he’s sure he’ll fall apart. And he can barely open up in group therapy, so crying in front of a room with fifty strangers seems impossible.

He sprints down the upstairs hallway and pulls open the bathroom door. After flipping on the lights and locking the door, Keith slumps against the edge of the tub. His elbows dig into his thighs as his hands struggle to hold up the weight of his head. Burying his fingers into his hair, Keith whistles out a breath, but it catches on a sob.

He’s falling apart.

A soft knock sounds at the door.

“Keith.” Shiro’s voice is quiet, and Keith hears the muted thud of Shiro leaning against the door. “Open the door please.”

“No.” His voice is tight, and it’s obvious to anyone listening that he’s on the verge of tears.

He hears the sound of muffled conversation, before Hunk’s calls, “We kicked him out, Keith. Rolo and Nyma are taking Caster home. He’s not welcome here anymore.”

“We just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Pidge’s voice follows, and it’s so soft — the softest he’s ever heard from them before.

Keith bites his lip, because the tears he’s attempting to swallow are now running down his cheeks. He never hoped to have friends like this — never hoped to have people who would stand up for him, who would rush to his side and fight for him.

Clearing his throat, Keith says, “I’m okay.”

But he knows it’s obvious that he’s crying.

There’s more muffled conversation outside the door and a shuffle of footsteps. Until there’s no more sound.

Keith almost resigns himself to crying alone when Lance speaks, “Keith. Let me in.” There’s a seriousness to his voice that Keith is unfamiliar with.

He hopes that Lance didn’t hear the things Caster was saying, but he knows that Caster was screaming over the music. He knows everyone heard. He knows it’ll hurt Lance more than it hurt him, because Keith’s heard all of it for years while Lance’s wound is still so fresh.

Rising from his perch on the edge of the tub, Keith scrubs the tears from his cheeks before unlocking the door. He opens it to see Lance standing there, hands tucked into his pockets and bloodshot grey eyes. Keith’s pretty sure that’s from the weed Lance smoked, but there is a steadiness to Lance’s stance that wasn’t there earlier.

Lance pushes past Keith and into the bathroom, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. Nodding his head, Lance motions for Keith to join him.

Shutting the door, Keith sinks back to his original seat on the lip of the tub.

Silence settles between them, accented by the music and the sounds of the party that never stopped beneath them.

“Sorry about your coffee table.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’ll pay for a new one.”

Lance shrugs and props one arm on the bathroom sink. It’s a small room and their knees are practically crushed together to fit both of them. But it gives Keith a steadiness that he didn’t know he was longing for.

The expression on Lance’s face is perfectly neutral, so distant from everything Keith knows about Lance. He wants to look away, but he’s drawn in by Lance’s gravity.

He can still smell the scent of weed lingering on Lance’s clothes. He wishes he could smell the cologne Lance always wears instead, crisp sea salt and clove — anything to make him forget about the party.

“It was from Ikea, so it’s no big deal.”

“Still.” Keith chews on his lips and drags his gaze away from Lance’s face. He counts the tiles that line the bottom half of the walls while his fingers trace over his throbbing knuckles. “I’m sorry about ruining your Halloween party.”

“Ruin it?” Lance laughs, but it’s humorless. And Keith can’t bear to look at him again. “You made everyone’s night. They’re going to be talking about this for weeks. Years even.”

Keith smiles ruefully. “Yeah. A good story never dies in the Serrano household.”

“And it is a _good_ story.”

There’s something in the tone of Lance’s voice that makes Keith glance up. His features have relaxed into a small smile while his eyes remain glossy. A warm hand settles on his shoulder, comforting and understanding.

“Keith, you know you’re not in the wrong here, right?” Lance pauses, waiting for Keith’s confirmation. When he nods slightly, Lance continues, “You punched an asshole in the face—”

“Yeah. I punched someone. In the face.”

“He was an asshole. We all heard the bullshit he was saying.” Lance stands suddenly, drawing his hand back from Keith’s shoulder to prop on his hips. He takes a step so that he’s standing immediately in front of Keith. “Hopefully you gave him a wakeup call that it’s the fucking twenty-first century.”

And like that Lance goes off.

“I mean can we talk about his little speech? He was totally perpetuating rape culture and victim blaming! Like, are you serious? He’s got to get his head out of his ass. Maybe that’s where he’s inhaling all these toxic fumes that make him think it’s okay to try to force himself on someone?” Lance rolls his eyes and groans.

Keith has never seen anyone more beautiful.

Slumping back on the toilet seat, Lance seems to settle back down as the rage leaves him with a single sigh.

“He was an asshole,” Keith admits with a small smile.

“What can I say?” Lance shrugs his shoulders with a haunty grin. “I’m always right.”

But whatever lightheartedness had filled the air between them evaporates as Lance pins him with a serious look.

“You know he was just spewing bullshit, right?”

Keith drops his gaze to the floor as he nods. “Yeah. I know.”

But they both hear the lack of conviction in his tone.

Because what can he say? Maybe Caster was right? Maybe it’s better that he never met his soulmate. Maybe the people who want him only like him because he’s available and there’s no commitment — because everyone is waiting, waiting for something that’ll never come for Keith.

“Keith. It was all bullshit.”

“I know.” But the words are hollow.

“We aren’t less than. We aren’t sluts or whores just because we have grey eyes. We aren’t fucking _soulless_.” Lance’s voice cracks on the last word, and Keith’s head jerks up. Lance’s features are pinched, and while his gaze narrows tears leak from the corners. It’s clear that Lance isn’t just saying this for Keith’s benefit.

Keith nods as he quickly wipes away a tear that escapes. “I know.”

“We are good enough.”

“I know.”

He can’t fight the tears now as he reaches out for Lance’s hand. Lance’s fingers are trembling as they uncoil and wind with Keith’s. Without thought, Keith pulls Lance towards him and they both fall backward into the bathtub with the excess force. The porcelain threatens to knock the wind out of Keith, but he hasn’t fallen far. Lance is warm above him, legs tangling together and faces only a breath away.

A single tear drips off of Lance’s chin and lands on Keith’s forehead. With a small sob, Lance buries himself in Keith’s neck, wiping his tears and jingling the bell on Keith’s collar.

“But if we’re good enough, then why?” Lance’s hands clench Keith’s shirt as if he’s holding on for dear life.

Keith shakes his head, gazing up at the ceiling like he can find the answer above — like the gods from so long ago will come down and share their malicious intent.

They’re crammed into the side of the tub, legs tangled and Keith’s neck aches from where it’s pressing into the lip of the tub, but he doesn’t dare move.

He tries to steady himself with a breath, but it catches on a swallowed sob. Tucking his chin, Keith buries his face in Lance’s hair, inhaling the delicate scent of the ocean breeze. And as each moment passes, he feels more grounded in Lance’s presence and the firm weight of his body.

He almost answers, _so we can find someone else without the expectations and pressures and certainty of it all_. But he can’t possibly say that with the weight on his chest and the foreign affection that’s bubbling behind his ribs.

“I don’t know,” is what he says instead.

Lance nods against his shoulder. 

They stay like that until Keith’s neck is screaming and his legs are all pins and needles. But the longer they stay like this, the longer he can hide his tears in Lance’s hair and Lance can hide his sobs in Keith’s neck. The longer they’re like this, the longer they don’t feel alone.

And Keith didn’t know how alone he was, until he wasn’t anymore.

“Thank you, Lance,” Keith whispers into his hair, breathing in the scent of sea salt and relishing in the steady rise and fall of Lance’s chest.

“Anytime.”

And it sounds like a promise.  
  



	5. Eyes Like Sapphires and Smile Like Gold

Keith knows he has to be dreaming, because the barely-there touch up the length of his thigh feels too blissful to be true. Squeezing his eyes closed a little tighter, Keith nestles into the warm chest before him. He can smell the scent of cloves and sea salt, and without opening his eyes, he knows it’s Lance beside him.

Lance’s hand settles firmly on Keith’s hip, fingers digging into the flesh as if Keith might disappear before him.

“Keith,” he whispers, all gravel and husk. It sends a shiver of unfamiliar pleasure crawling up Keith’s spine. “Baby, can I touch you?”

And suddenly Keith’s never wanted anything more. It doesn’t matter how Lance touches him, as long as their connection lasts, as long as Lance keeps whispering things like that.

Lance buries his face against Keith’s neck, and instinctively Keith tips his head deeper into the pillow to give Lance room. Back arching to press into Lance’s warm, naked chest. Keith lets out a bitten-off moan as Lance drags his lips along his neck with the same delicate warmth he used with his fingers on Keith’s thigh. Keith is desperate to touch him, to prove to himself that this isn’t a dream.

His fingers meet the wide expanse of Lance’s tanned chest. It’s stretched taught over the subtle strength of his muscles, coiling tight as he leverages himself over Keith — and Keith willingly turns for him, allowing Lance on top, to pin him like no other fighter has done before. Lance pulls away with a shuddering breath, the hand on Keith’s hip like a grip of fire.

Even if it’ll shatter the dream, Keith can’t keep his eyes closed any longer.

In the dim light of his bedroom, Lance looks ethereal. His hair is loose and curling into his gaze, muscles tensed and catching shadows and outlining everything Keith wants to drag his hands over. But they stall, caught on Lance’s expression: eyes like sapphires and smile like gold.

Something in that gaze makes Keith pause, makes him question the reality around him.

But before he’s pulled too far, Lance speaks again, stealing his attention. “Sweetheart, can I touch you?”

Keith bites his lip, but the whimper still escapes.

“Hm?” Lance purrs, leaning down a little farther, closer to Keith’s lips, to his chest, into his hands. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

“Please,” Keith breathes, arching his back into Lance as that fiery hand drifts from his hip, tracing patterns into his pelvis before it delves lower.

“Anything for my soulmate,” Lance exhales, and the dream shatters around Keith.

He wakes to a dark bedroom. To the phantom touch of Lance’s hands and the illusioned blue of his eyes — the color that Keith’s grey one used to be. To the weight of all of his desires, to the new desire burning in his stomach.

Reaching beneath his boxers, Keith grips himself and finishes what the dream started, all with the whisper of “Lance” on his lips.

Exhaling heavily, the guilt creeps in slowly, following the fading euphoria of his orgasm. It’s barely been three days since the Halloween party, and Keith can still feel the impression of Lance’s body on his own. It lingers with such fervent heat that it scares Keith.

And it only makes the guilt more bitter.

That moment hadn’t been anything close to romantic or sexual. It’d been two men collapsing under the weight of an unforgiving world.

But it’s been so long since Keith has touched anyone. That someone outside his family embraced him kindly, held him like he was fragile and not some cursed demon. That someone told him that he was worth something.

But this dream was just hormones. He swears.

Sighing, Keith extracts himself from bed as his sweat clings to the sheets. He’s startlingly thirsty, either from the rigorous dream or the rigorous training Acxa has been putting him through this weekend. His muscles burn with each step, but he loves the distraction.

Plodding through the kitchen, Keith doesn’t mean to overhear the conversation, the hushed whispers that echo through the vents and slide beneath the door. The only light in the kitchen is from the open refrigerator and the light that outlines Shiro and Adam’s door.

“He’s like a brother to me too, Takashi, but he’s been doing so much better recently, even considering the Halloween party — and — and I just wanted to talk about it. It’s not like I’m asking for him to move out tomorrow.” Adam’s voice is a hiss, a quiet pleading thing that begs for understanding beneath the muffled irritation.

“But,” Shiro croaks, “but, Adam, he—”

“He’s not a child anymore. I just—” Adam sighs, and it verges on a sob, “—we met almost two year ago, and I don’t know if this is just because of my family or whatever, but I expected to at least have a date set for the wedding by now. You can’t keep using Keith as your excuse!”

There’s a beat of silence as the refrigerator door slips between Keith’s fingers and closes with a soft thud. The cup of water in his hand feels cold enough to burn.

“Keith isn’t my excuse, Adam—”

“Then just tell me you don’t want to get married then!”

“I do want to!”

“Then what’s the problem, Takashi? Is it me? What have I done — what—”

There’s a muffled sob and the sudden sound of footsteps. “I’m sorry. I never meant to make you feel like this. I just — Keith can be so distant, even when he’s living with us that I worry if we go, I’ll never hear from him again. But —” Shiro sighs, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t start looking into things.”

Whatever words are spoken after that are so distant and hushed Keith barely catches them as he slinks back into his room.

The cup of water sits untouched on his nightstand for a long time after that.

꧁❤꧂

“What the hell is friendsgiving?” Keith asks without looking up from his phone. He’s been distractedly dragging his spoon through his bowl of oatmeal. Because of all the extra training he did this weekend, Acxa has given him today off to recover.

He’s not sure if it’s just a random Tuesday or if Shiro has somehow told his trainer about group. Does Acxa go easier on him on Wednesdays? 

Keith scrubs at his hair, still damp from his shower. His shoulders ache from training this weekend. He hadn’t really been in the mood for talking this with the Halloween party hanging over his head. Somehow Acxa took that as a sign to work him so hard even his fingertips ache.

“Did Lance invite you too?” Shiro looks up from the couch.

But Keith can’t look at Shiro, too aware of last night’s conversation, and he knows it’ll show on his face.

Pausing whatever television show he was watching, Shiro says, “I think it’s a friend version of Thanksgiving.”

“Do we have to make something?”

Shiro gives Keith a skeptical look. “Adam and I can make something. We don’t need another brownie incident.”

Keith groans, “ _Shiro_ ,” as his brother fills their apartment with laughter, and it feels like home.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Allura smiles warmly to all of them, and Keith is struggling to focus on her rather than the heat he feels wafting from Lance’s body — so close to him, Lance’s arm still thrown over the back of his chair.

Keith knows that if he turns slightly, he might catch a whiff of Lance’s cologne.

But rather than give in to whatever cardinal desire is thrumming through him, Keith grits his teeth and forces himself to listen as Allura speaks.

“Why don’t we go around the room and say one good and one bad thing from this past week.” Allura motions to Quinton on her left.

After taking a long sip of his coffee, Quinton begins detailing his daughter’s dance recital.

But Keith is distracted by the soreness in his muscles and the lingering ache in his chest — something that hasn't been resolved since Friday. He only tunes back in when Lance speaks.

“My good news is that I finally submitted my paper to an academic journal, so fingers crossed that they’ll accept it soon.” Lance is all smiles, crossing his fingers and chuckling.

“Will this be your first paper?” Allura asks, folding her hands over her clipboard and listening intently.

“It’s the first paper that I’m the first author on, so that’s really exciting. But I’ve been credited on about five papers or so.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but Keith can’t even imagine being at the forefront of science, publishing papers that his peers will read and appreciate. Something that could benefit the whole of society.

If he wasn’t already enthralled by Lance, he would be now.

Keith shakes his head at the thought, focusing back in on Lance and not the heat that climbs up the back of his neck or the memory of his dream that sits low in his stomach.

Humming to himself, Lance seems to debate on what to say. “And I guess my bad thing was that I went to another meeting about the aquarium’s funding issues. It kind of got me down for a couple days, because I’ve seen the great impact the summer programs have on kids.”

Allura nods, jotting something down on her clipboard, before glancing up and pinning Keith with her vibrant gaze. “Keith,” she motions to him.

“Uh,” and Keith can’t think beyond the ache in his shoulders from trying to beat the anger out of his system, and the weight of Lance in his arms in that cramped bathroom, “I punched someone.”

Lance stiffens next to him.

“Outside of work?” Allura tilts her head to the side, and Keith scratches at the back of his neck as his gaze drops to the ground.

“Yeah. He said, uh, some stuff.”

“Keith, you know that violence isn’t the answer. But it’s evident that what he said upset you greatly. Why don’t you take a moment to talk about it?” Her tone is like the tide, pulling Keith with gentle lapping waters that make him want to answer.

His hands sink to his lap, fingers twining together as if to keep his mind occupied. “He—he was hitting on me at this Halloween party, and he kept saying shit about how I’m available because of my eyes.” He clenches his fists, and they tremble against his thighs. Gritting his teeth doesn’t stop the thickness of his voice, the evidence of his swallowed tears. “I should be used to this shit. People have said it for years. So I don’t know what it was about him that got me so angry.”

Rather than allowing himself to cry in this “safe space,” Keith relishes in the anger that bubbles up — grabs hold of it and lets it still his fists.

“He was an asshole that got offended when I turned him down. And as soon as I did, he started calling me a slut and insinuated that I would put out for money.” His gaze darts up to gauge Allura’s reaction to the heat in his words, but she still wears the same schooled expression. Keith continues, venom saturating his words, “Not that it matters, but I’m a virgin. I’m twenty-four, and I’ve never even been kissed. And it’s because of these grey eyes that supposedly make me ‘available.’ In reality, no one wants to be with you if they think you’re soulless. Unless they just want a quick and easy fuck.” He chuckles darkly, shaking his head as the tightness to his throat returns.

Inhaling to steady himself, Keith pins Allura with his gaze. “So when he slapped my ass, I punched him in the face. And when he swung at me, I flipped him into the coffee table. And guess what? I don’t regret it at all.”

Lance places a soft hand on his shoulder, but Keith doesn’t relax. It’s a comforting weight nonetheless.

Allura’s voice keeps that same calm quality as she asks, “What do you mean by ‘you should be used to this?’”

“That’s what you got from all that?” Keith bites back.

“We’re not here to discuss him, Keith. We’re here for you. So please, if you’re comfortable, answer the question.”

Keith grinds his teeth and gazes at the carpet in the center of the circle. It’s some old beige shade that varies between stains and bleaching cleaner. He’s taken so long that he thinks they might move on before he can speak.

“I—I lost my soulmate when I was eight,” he mumbles, voice catching like he hasn’t spoken in years rather than minutes, “so I’ve gotten comments like his my whole life. I don’t even manage my work social media accounts, because I got tired of hearing people say I was ruthless in the ring because of my eyes. So shouldn’t I be used to people calling me soulless or a whore even if they’re wrong?”

“If you know they’re wrong, why are you so upset by it?” Allura leans forward with a glint to her vibrant, cotton-candy eyes. It’s like she’s hinting at something, waiting for Keith to have a revelation or an epiphany about losing his soulmate.

But there’s nothing except simmering anger.

Keith crosses his arms and settles back in his chair like he’s comfortable being the focus on the conversation. “It sucks to be insulted.”

“Keith, you know this is a safe space—”

“Can’t it just be as simple as that? Who likes to be insulted?” Keith sits forward, hands flailing out to motion around the circle. He’s expecting some head nods or voices of agreement, but no one is willing to meet his eyes — except Antoni, who meets his gaze with only one grey eye and one colored like the dawn. It makes his blood boil.

Allura’s voice is calm, trying to rein in his anger. “It’s alright. You don’t have to talk about this anymore if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m only uncomfortable with you trying to probe me for more information _when there is none_.”

“Okay, Keith. Let’s see if anyone else has experience with this that would like to chime in.” Allura’s eyes leave him, and it’s like a weight has been lifted off his chest. She scans the members.

Kit raises her hand before speaking. “I know that Keith and I haven’t had very similar experiences, but I do relate to being propositioned for sex. Soon after I had lost my soulmate, a man approached me on the street and handed me money. I was fifty-three at the time, and I had never felt dirtier in my life. It was the most insulting thing anyone has ever done to me, to assume that I’m a sex worker from my eyes alone.

“I was sure that there had to be something else that made him think so. I began wearing more conservative clothes, and I was afraid to leave the house, lest someone take advantage of me for the same reason.

“It took me a while to realize that it had nothing to do with me. That man was ignorant. He was the one that was soulless, and his actions were a reflection on him. Not me.”

The entire time Kit had spoken directly to Keith, telling him the story and the moral of it all. Her intensity made a shiver travel up his spine, warm and soothing.

Biting his lip, he dropped his gaze to the floor, unable to hold her eyes any longer.

“Thank you so much for sharing, Kit. That was a wonderful story to hear. It takes a lot of work to arrive at that conclusion, and we are all proud of you.” Allura taps her pen against her chin, gazing around the room. “Is there anyone else that wants to contribute?”

Antoni’s shoulders hunch more dramatically before he grumbles, “I agree with Keith. It’s hard to be treated like you have some kind of contagious disease.” One hand rubs down his face, hiding his singular grey eye from them for a second.

There’s a murmur of assent around the room, but Keith only sinks deeper into his chair. His fingers leaving bruises on his biceps with the force of his grip.

“Exactly!”

“We’re not monsters.”

“We’re not something to fear,” Heather’s voice is strong as she chimes in.

Keith can’t stop scoff that leaves his lips at Heather’s comment.

“You don’t agree, Keith?” Heather’s voice is bitter, cutting through the small pockets of conversation. She’s grown steadier with each session, with each week widening the distance between her and the loss of Amir.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you obviously disagree which is kind of strange, because you were just saying the same thing.” She leans forward in her chair, encroaching in the center of the circle. Her feet sink into the carpet like she’s ready to stand up and challenge him in this cramped basement.

“We’re clearly something to fear though, Heather. We’re the personification of everyone’s greatest fears.” Keith uncrosses his arms, moving forward to sit on the edge of his seat. “This society is so fixated on soulmates that the thought of losing yours is worse than death itself. So yeah, I think we’re something to fear.”

Heather’s lip twists up in a snarl. “So you think we deserve all of this treatment?”

“What? No—”

“You think we deserve to be cursed and solicited and treated like dirt?”

“No—”

“You agree with all the assholes? You agree that —”

“ _So what if I agree with them?!_ ” Keith screams, hands curling into fists on his knees and eyes squeezing closed. He doesn’t want to see their faces as the rest of his explanation tumbles from his lips. “Maybe we are cursed, soulless bastards. Why else would this happen to us? There’s got to be a reason. Something we did.”

His voice decreased to a mere whisper, leaving the room in a quiet silence. The only sound is the thudding of the off-kilter fan above their heads.

Tipping his chin back, Keith fights off the tears that blur his vision. He whispers to himself, realizing only after the fact that Allura most definitely heard him, “What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything, Keith.” Allura’s voice is so quiet that Keith can barely hear it.

“But — but if I was just a better kid, I mean, maybe if I didn’t get in so many fights or if I just learned how to listen, then—”

“Then what?” Allura is challenging him, watching him with cotton-candy eyes forged like tempered steel. Her posture is stiff as she leans forward. “Then your soulmate wouldn’t have died?”

“Yes,” the word is a whimper that tears down the length of his throat and tastes like blood.

The room settles into a stilted silence as Keith curls in on himself and bites off every sob that echoes in his throat. No one dares to move or even breathe.

A warm hand rests on his back, and somehow just from the feel, Keith knows it’s Lance’s hand. Glancing up through his fingers, Keith catches Lance’s expression: he’s on the verge of tears and there’s so much understanding that Keith almost chokes.

Without thought, Keith throws his arms around Lance’s neck and buries his face into the sweet smell of cologne. He doesn’t let himself think about how good it feels to have Lance this close, to feel the heat of his skin, to be the one that Lance comforts. Lance’s hands settle on his back and shush him quiet, drawing tender lines up and down Keith’s spine.

When his sobs quiet, Keith doesn’t pull away, because he’s too ashamed to show his bloodshot eyes to the rest of the group.

“Keith,” Lance’s whisper is hot against Keith’s ear, and he can’t suppress the shudder at the sensation, “you can’t hide forever. Come on, we’ve all been there. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Keith swallows the fresh wave of tears.

How does Lance always do that? Make Keith proud of the smallest things like going to therapy or talking about his feelings or crying — things that were supposed to be simple, but somehow Lance knew they weren’t.

Nodding against Lance’s neck, Keith pulls back and wipes at his eyes with the harsh fabric of his fingerless gloves.

“Sorry about that,” Keith mumbles as he settles back into his own seat rather than his last perch in Lance’s chair.

“It’s quite alright, Keith.” Allura’s voice still holds that warm quality it always does. Her cotton candy gaze is soft as it traces the contours of his features like there is something new there. “It can sometimes be a hard thing to accept, but these things don’t define you, Keith. You are defined by your actions and your beliefs. Just because you have suffered a great loss doesn’t discount you from the other joys in your life. You deserve to be happy.”

Keith nods and hopes that no one else can see the way his heart jump starts in his chest. There’s still a part of him, fervent and feral, that rebels against the notion, because he’s lived with this guilt, this cursed fate, for so long. But he focuses on the weight of Lance next to him and the fondness in Allura’s eyes.

Maybe Keith should punch more assholes in the face.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Keith tunes out for the rest of the session, more exhausted than he feels after practice. Leaning back against the chair and the arm Lance has slung over the back, Keith closes his eyes and listens to the soothing tone of everyone’s voice. When Lance speaks, Keith wants to curl closer — like a flower drawn to the sun.

He chooses not to question why he’s so drawn to Lance or why Lance is the only person who is allowed to see him cry or why Keith has been waking up every morning with the remnants of dreams on his skin — Lance’s confident hands and blinding smile.

He pretends not to notice, pretends not to know why, but as much as he wishes he could pretend not to know, he isn’t an idiot.

When Keith follows Lance upstairs and into the fading sunlight, he realizes he would follow this boy anywhere.

“Wanna get a bite to eat or something?” Lance buries his hands in his pockets and shrugs his shoulders like it’s just a casual invitation between friends. But to Keith it feels like so much more. Because he can never say no to Lance. Not to drinks or dumb halloween costumes or bowling leagues.

“Sure,” Keith steps closer to Lance, wanting to smell his cologne on the breeze or feel the warmth of his skin once again. To feel that foreign comfort.

“Okay, good. I didn’t want you driving all the way home after a hard session like that.” Lance smiles over his shoulder as he points a thumb at the Chinese place next door to the counseling center. “Want some Chinese? My treat.”

And that’s when Keith can’t deny his feelings anymore.

He is in love with that vibrant smile and the enthusiastic glint to those silver eyes and the rhythmic hop to his steps and the dedication he has for everything he does and his passion for his work and his job and all of his friends. His loyalty. His compassion. His love for life even when he’d lost his soulmate a year ago.

Because they’d both lost their soulmates and met in therapy, but Keith can’t seem to stop the feelings splitting him at the seams. His feelings for Lance can’t be contained by his heart or his 24 meager ribs. It’s too all consuming.

Maybe because Keith’s never had a crush before. Maybe because he hadn’t met Lance before, met someone who swept him off his feet with a comforting smile, who went out of his way to console Keith and make all of his little deeds feel like actual accomplishments.

But these feelings don’t feel little. But falling in love after the loss of his soulmate feels simultaneously like an accomplishment and a betrayal of the most basic kind.

Keith follows Lance into the Chinese restaurant and watches him struggle to use chopsticks with his tongue sticking out between his lips as he concentrates. And Keith realizes that it’s too late to go back.

He’s already fallen.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keith has finally fallen!! ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ✩‧₊˚
> 
> I think the beginning scene is one of the _spiciest_ scenes I've ever written! I hope you enjoyed haha


	6. So Much More Than All of This

Realizing he’s in love with Lance has made everything infinitely more difficult.

His heart races when his phone vibrates, simultaneously hoping it is and isn’t Lance. He suddenly cares too much about his lack of fashion sense and his obsession with black. He debates buying a bowling membership so that he can actually be a challenge for Lance. He debates gouging out his silver eye and acting like Lance was his destiny all along.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Keith knows Shiro suspects something. He almost always sees his best friend with that half-formed expression, always on the verge of saying something, but Keith never gives him the chance.

He’s afraid to hear what Shiro says.

For the condemnation that he’s used to hearing from everyone but his brother.

But Keith watches as the realization settles on Shiro’s expression during the Friendsgiving Lance invited them all to.

Keith walks into Lance’s now semi-familiar apartment carrying a bowl of mashed potatoes — ones that Adam wouldn’t let him touch as he used the hand mixer from the infamous brownie incident. Shiro carries a bottle of wine, and Adam proudly presents a basket of rolls like he hadn’t just unpackaged them and thrown them in the oven.

Lance smiles widely from the kitchen as they all follow Hunk into the apartment. It’s calmer than the Halloween party. A mix of food is displayed on the counters and a pile of unwashed dishes sits in the sink.

Hunk waves from over his shoulder before running up the stairs, mumbling something about a holiday sweater.

“Welcome guys!” Lance announces, shucking off his oven mitts as he kicks the oven door closed behind him. “Hunk said the turkey will be done in about 30. Oh, mashed potatoes!” Lance’s excitement makes Keith blush, a traitorous heat that burns in his cheeks.

“Adam made them today.” Keith leans conspiratorially close to Lance, ignoring the uptick in his heart rate or the way his flush burns deeper. “He wouldn’t even let Shiro and me into the kitchen.”

Lance chuckles and tips his head so he can whisper into Keith’s ear. “Hunk barely lets me baste the turkey after I accidentally burnt one of his pies last year. It’s not my fault fifteen sounds like fifty.”

The warmth of his breath causes shivers to trace languidly up Keith’s spine, and Keith can’t fight his sudden inhale — and of course, over the delicious smell of turkey and mashed potatoes and all of the Thanksgiving specials, Keith can only smell Lance’s cologne. It makes his knees weak.

Keith manages a slight chuckle at whatever Lance said, too focused on the way everything around them blurs when he’s this close to Lance.

Over Lance’s shoulder, Keith catches sight of Shiro and immediately freezes at his expression. It’s something contemplative, on the verge of a revelation.

“Oh, uh,” Keith stumbles back a few steps from Lance before shoving the bowl of mashed potatoes into Lance’s hands, “here.”

“Cool. I’ll put it in the bread warmer so it stays hot,” Lance comments over his shoulder, bending over to pull the bottom drawer out of the oven and sliding the glass bowl in around several others.

Keith can’t fight the way his gaze drops to the swell of Lance’s ass, the graceful way he bends, and Keith realizes he wants. It’s like every tantalizing dream that’s haunted Keith’s nights. It’s like that first night at the bar, when it was just them and the fizz of beer on their lips. He wants so much more than all of this. He feels desperate with it.

Lance straightens, and Keith scratches at the back of his neck, attempting to casually lean against the counter. Dusting his hands off on the thighs of his jeans, Lance sheepishly meets Adam and Shiro’s gazes. “Sorry we don’t have a real kitchen table either. Normally we just eat on the couches. Probably not like the friendsgivings you’re used to.”

“It’s fine. Neither of these two even knew what friendsgiving was until you texted them.” Adam’s smile is conspiratorial as he takes the bottle of wine from Shiro’s hands. Like he’s already comfortable in someone else’s kitchen, he pulls the corkscrew from one of the drawers and opens the bottle with a pop. Adam meets Shiro’s eyes over the rim of his freshly poured wine glass and says, “Plus, it saved me from doing all of the cooking.”

Lance settles into one of the chairs at the breakfast bar, swirling a glass of red wine that Keith didn’t even notice Adam pour. “Does Adam normally cook for your Thanksgiving?”

“This will actually be our first Thanksgiving together. We met almost two years ago, but our first year together we decided to spend holidays with our families, since everything was still so new.” Adam leans his forearms on the countertop.

Keith glances over at Shiro, feeling so out of place in this conversation as Lance and Adam talk like old friends. Shiro wears a sheepish expression that has him reaching for the bottle of wine and a glass.

“How did you two meet?” There’s something fragile in Lance’s expression beneath the curiosity and joy. Something Keith has gotten the privilege to see a couple times at group.

“God, I’m going to need something stronger than wine for this story,” Shiro groans, but Adam’s already started telling all of the little details.

“So you know how the ice rink in front of city hall opens up every holiday season? Well, Shiro thought it would be a great idea for him and Keith to go ice skating, because Keith had never been before.” Adam glances out the corner of his eyes, watching Shiro wince as he knows what’s about to happen. “So, being the big brother he is, Shiro decided to demonstrate how to ice skate.”

Keith can’t stop his chuckle that rises at the memory, even though he muffles it behind a hand.

Lance’s eyes snap to his — heavy in the oven-heated air of the kitchen — and Keith’s laugh cuts off in a soft gasp.

But as soon as Adam continues to speak, the moment between them ends abruptly as Lance’s eyes land back on Adam. “But he just ended up sliding down the length of the ice rink and skidding to a stop right in front of me. When I offered to help him up, our eyes met and the rest is history.”

“I swear he almost ran over like five children,” Keith chuckles, remembering the day with startling clarity, but he wishes he could forget the way hurt blazed within him as he watched Adam’s eyes flicker to a matching shade. Because as happy as he was for his brother, jealousy saturated his blood at the sight of everything he wants but can never have.

“It wasn’t as bad as they’re making it out. My grandfather thought it was very romantic,” Shiro mumbles around the rim of his wine glass.

A bittersweetness lingers on Lance’s smile. “Makes me think about how I met Cynthia.”

The air rushes out of Keith’s lungs, because there’s a distant fondness in Lance’s eyes, something that speaks to how much progress he’s made in therapy — to be able to talk about her.

“Sorry, Lance.” Adam recoils, unable to look away from the depths of Lance’s grey eyes. “I didn’t think —”

“It’s okay, Adam. I’ve always loved those kinds of stories.” Lance shakes his head, still wearing that fond, distant look.

Keith takes a tentative step forward, wanting so much to touch Lance, to ensure he’s not some apparition, because a man so pure-hearted shouldn’t exist. “Do you want to talk about her?” he whispers, afraid that if he speaks too loud, Lance’s expression will shatter.

“Yeah, I kind of do,” Lance exhales, hands still swirling his wine glass as if on autopilot. “Sometimes I forget she was real, you know? Do you want to know how we met?” His gaze drops and focuses on Keith, and Keith’s throat tightens at the sight. He can only nod his head in response. “We were at a karaoke bar, and this girl got on stage, and she looked so nervous that I was afraid she’d spill her drink before she even started singing. Instead, she chugged the whole thing and handed the empty glass to the DJ.”

Lance chuckles, gaze distant as if he’s watching Cynthia take the stage again. He doesn’t notice how Hunk pauses at the bottom of the stairs with wide eyes and hands trembling against the hem of his holiday sweater.

“You won’t believe what song she chose.” Lance’s smile hasn’t faded; it’s all warmth and nostalgia and love. “‘Mama Mia,’ and oh my god, she danced along to it and started pointing into the crowd. I swore our eyes met when she looked out. So of course when she was done, I got up to sing ‘Take a Chance on Me.’ She was just getting back from the bar with a beer in each hand, and she sat down at her table in the front with her friends. I made sure to catch her eye so I could wink or something lame like that.

“The whole crowd gasped as my eyes changed color under those stage lights. I swear if Cynthia had still been holding those beers she would’ve dropped them without thought. She actually climbed up on stage and kissed me before the song even ended.” Lance’s voice had gone quiet by the end, softened into something Keith didn’t recognize.

Looking over Lance’s shoulder, Keith watches Hunk press a hand to his lips and turn so that he’s hiding just beyond sight on the staircase.

“That’s a beautiful story, Lance,” Shiro says, reaching forward so he can place a comforting hand on Lance’s forearm.

“Yeah, anyway, let’s get this friendsgiving started!” Lance raises his glass and tips it back so he can take two large gulps. “I’m going to get Hunk so—”

“I’ll get him,” Keith interjects, remembering the dampness to Hunk’s eyes and the way he disappeared before Lance could see him. “I have to go to the bathroom anyway,” he gives by way of explanation.

Lance shrugs as he pushes his glass towards Adam to refill.

When Keith crests the first stair, he sees Hunk, hidden behind the wall, crouching down and holding onto the railing for stability. Keith places a guiding hand on his shoulder, ushering Hunk up the stairs and out of earshot.

Once they’re safely hidden in Hunk’s room, the big man practically collapses on his bed. Keith watches him curiously, leaning against the door as if that could stop Lance from listening. Hunk is staring into his hands like he can’t fathom what just happened.

“I—” Hunk’s voice is a croak, something so foreign compared to his bright warm tone, “he— he hasn’t talked about Cynthia since the funeral.” Hunk’s eyes dart up to meet Keith’s, and at the sight, Keith bites his lip to hide the tremble of his chin or the tears that blur his vision. “And he hasn’t talked so fondly of her since she was alive. I just— I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah, it was nice to hear about her.”

Keith doesn’t mention that he knew about Cynthia or about Lance’s nightmares — which he already knows aren’t an unusual thing from how Lance alludes to them in group. A warmth curls in his chest knowing that Lance trusted him with something so private.

Hunk wipes at his eyes and stands up tall. “Alright. Let’s make this the best friendsgiving ever.”

They bound down the stairs to see Pidge and Matt throwing their coats on the back of the couch and enjoying the warmth of Hunk and Lance’s apartment. From then on, it’s all smiles and laughs and too much alcohol.

And Keith can feel himself buzzing like that night at Vrepit Sal’s. Can feel himself leaning a little closer to Lance, as if he’s tilted so far off his axis that he can’t help but be drawn in by Lance’s gravity, by the blinding sight of his smile, by the laugh that rings like church bells.

If he was a little more sober, he would see the way Shiro is looking at him, hand gripped tightly on Adam’s thigh and wine glass left suspiciously full.

But he’s not sober. He’s drinking in Lance’s presence and drunk off his attention — the little touches, the way he bumps their shoulders together or asks Keith’s opinion at every turn in conversation or the way his eyes seem to stall on Keith’s lopsided smile. The taste of wine lingers on his tongue, and he wonders if that’s what Lance tastes like.

They’re all full and content, and Matt is telling a story while gesturing so wildly with his glass so full of wine that Pidge flinches every time he moves. It’s so bright here with all of these wonderful people, these wonderful friends. And Keith allows himself to bask in the warmth of it.

Leaning back against the couch, Keith realizes how heavy his head feels and the weight on his eyelids, only addled by his full stomach and alcohol. He shifts with a sigh and drops his head on Lance’s shoulder.

He can hear Lance’s rumble of laughter, like distant thunder, muffled through skin and cloth.

“Aw, cuddly Keith,” Matt pauses his story and coos like Keith’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

Lithe fingers braid their way into his hair. Keith hums in content, nuzzling deeper into Lance’s shoulder. Fingernails trace along his scalp and scratch at the back of his neck. Keith practically groans at the sensation that raises goosebumps on his arms and sends sparks down his spine. He inhales deeply and realizes that he’s at the juncture of Lance’s neck, where he sprays his cologne. The scent is so strong here that Keith’s lips part, desperate to taste the very scent that chases him to bed, to his dreams.

  
  


“Keith,” Shiro’s tone is firm, snapping Keith out of his daze.

He sits up straight, eyes wide and heart hammering in an instant. “What?” he breathes like it’s his last breath of air, like he’s been caught red handed.

It’s then that he realizes they’ve been talking while he’s been absorbed in the heat of Lance’s skin, of the desperation that hums like a tuning fork within him. People are gathering up their coats and empty tupperware. There’s a smile on all of their faces, a warmth that only good food and good company can bring.

Lance is still sitting behind him, rolling his wrist as if to bring feeling back to it.

“Sorry,” Keith mumbles attempting to find himself, to find an explanation that doesn’t betray the undeniable feelings that have been growing in his heart, “I did—”

“Don’t worry about it, man. Seems Acxa’s really been running you into the ground. Maybe tomorrow can be your cheat day if tonight wasn’t enough.” Lance shrugs it off like it’s no big deal.

But Keith’s never been inclined to touch anyone — not since he was eight, not since his soulmate died and people treated the loss like it was some contagious disease — not since his father passed away and his mother left him in the hands of Shiro’s grandfather so she could find herself atop mountains with just the sunset and her camera.

And Shiro knows that. His gaze feels like lead in Keith’s chest.

So Keith shrugs like Lance and plays it off like it’s no big deal, even though half of his body is stinging from the absence of Lance’s warmth.

Keith wants to hum and snuggle into the heat, to bury himself in Lance’s side and feel safe for the first night since he was eight.

But instead, he shrugs on his jacket and gives Hunk a hug and a “thank you for hosting.” Shiro’s eyes still linger as Keith makes it a point to hug everyone goodbye. Matt scrubs his hair and makes a joke about “cuddly Keith,” before they all stumble out into the cold.

Keith follows Adam and Shiro silently to their car, climbing into the back and wishing that Lance and Hunk’s apartment was close enough to walk. Instead, he props his arm on the window and stares at the budding Christmas decorations — even though it’s not even past Thanksgiving. He feels like he’s a petulant child again.

“Keith,” Shiro sighs, eyes still focused on the road. Keith knows that if he glances up, he’ll see how tightly his best friend’s hands are gripping the wheel, knuckles white with the force. “I don’t want to pry, but—”

“Then don’t.” Keith doesn’t mean for his tone to cut the way it does. The way it slices through the remnants of the alcohol in his blood and the peaceful air of Lance and Hunk’s apartment.

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Keith can feel Shiro’s gaze on him through the rearview mirror, but his eyes don’t leave the passing buildings beside them.

“Shiro, you shouldn’t push him.” Adam’s tone is stilted, unaccustomed to keeping peace between the brothers.

Shiro stops the car aggressively at the next light. Keith’s arm falls from its delicate perch on the window, and he can’t stop his glare from settling on Shiro in the rearview mirror.

“I just,” Shiro sighs harshly through his nose. “Why him?”

The air rushes out of Keith’s lungs like he’s been punched in the stomach. It’s an oddly familiar feeling, but to have the sensation occur without anyone even touching him is new. “What do you mean?”

Shiro runs his prosthetic through his hair, an angry tick Keith hasn’t seen in years. “Is it because you met at group? What did he say to start all of this?”

“He didn’t do anything, Shiro. We’re just friends.”

Shiro’s scowl deepens into something so distantly familiar to Keith. Familiar to the Keith that stumbled home from parties in high school, to the Keith that always had bruised knuckles, to the Keith that chased the high of adrenaline. Shiro spits, “He must have done something, because you’re obviously more than friends, Keith! All you talk about is Lance and his friends—”

“Stop—”

“Lance invites you to a bowling league, and you go. Lance invites you to a Halloween party, and you go. Lance talks to you at group, and you go. Well, I’ve been trying to get you out of the house for years, Keith. What’s so different about Lance?” Shiro’s eyes are in the rearview mirror, and even as the light turns green he doesn’t move.

“You’re like my brother, and he’s — he’s my first real friend.” The words crawl out of Keith’s throat like a spider, terrifyingly slow and on the verge of cracking.

Adam points forward as the light turns green, trying to direct the car even as honks sound behind them. But Shiro is only focused on Keith, nostrils flaring with each heavy breath. Adam’s hand on Shiro’s shoulder is the only thing that puts him into motion, and suddenly the car is moving again, turning onto the highway and flying just above the speed limit.

“Do you flirt with all of your friends?” It’s a whisper, a hiss, the rage hidden beneath the softness of his voice.

“Shiro, stop it.” Keith’s words feel like a plea, something dangerously close to tears and equally close to rage.

Shiro chances a glance in the rearview mirror, and whatever he sees on Keith’s expression makes his features soften. “I know you, Keith. You don’t just cuddle up with someone like that. And you get this,” he pauses, considering his words, “look on your face when he talks to you. I suspected something was going on since the Halloween party, but I just—” Shiro shakes his head and bites his lip as if he’s contemplating asking his next question. “Did he kiss you that night at the bar?” 

And Keith feels gutted. Like his brother had reached in and torn out his heart, because there was something so fragile about a first crush, something Keith had never experienced before. So he fills all that hollowness with rage.

His teeth are set on edge as he growls, “Are you saying that the only way Lance would be friends with me is if I was putting out? Just because we’re both soulless, grey-eyed monsters?”

“No, Keith — I wouldn’t — I just—” Shiro tightens his jaw as he exhales deeply.

It’s been a long time since they’ve done this, since Keith started acting out at Shiro’s grandfather’s house. Since Keith had purposely gotten into fights, determined to push everyone away, knowing it would hurt less if he left first.

Shiro turns off the highway, and Keith realizes they’re only minutes from the apartment. The drive has felt excruciatingly long.

“It’s just Lance has always been a flirt, and I don’t want to see you get heartbroken because he’s using you to recover from his soulmate.” There’s a harshness to Shiro’s voice and the set of his features, the conclusion that Shiro sometimes comes to after Keith has given him enough time to think about his questions.

“He’s not using me!” Keith flails his arms, irritated that there’s so much indignation bubbling in his lungs and no physical way to express it. “He’s been there for me!”

“ _Only because I asked him to!_ ” Shiro spits the words, and the regret is instantaneous on his features.

Keith falls back into his seat. The rage that flared in his lungs like an igniting wildfire is suddenly doused. Shivers course up Keith’s spine as he meets Shiro’s gaze in the mirror.

They’ve stopped one red light away from the parking garage under their apartment building.

“What did you say?” Keith whispers.

“Keith—” Adam begins, but Keith turns a ferocious glare at Adam, and his brother’s soulmate snaps his jaw shut.

Shiro pulls the car through the light and turns into the parking garage. The lights within the structure are a faded orange that colors the white forelock of Shiro’s hair. The second they’re parked, Shiro hangs his head over the steering wheel. His voice is quiet, barely a whisper, “Lance was in the same fraternity as me in college. He was my little so I got to know him pretty well, and when I found out through social media that he’d lost his soulmate, I reached out and tried to lend some comfort.

“A couple months later, he messaged me a thank you and said he was going to group therapy and how it was really helping. I asked him to look out for you if I could convince you to go. I — I thought it would be nice to have someone in your corner when you went, but I also knew that there would be no way in hell that you would go to therapy with someone I knew. So, I made Lance keep it quiet.” Shiro inhales, but it catches on a swallowed sob.

Keith wishes he could breathe. His lungs are burning from the stagnant air within them. With each word Shiro speaks, a paint brush sweeps over all of his memories with Lance, coloring them into something different.

That first day when Keith ran out of the building, had Lance only followed and given him advice because Shiro had asked for a favor? That first night when they went to the bar, did Lance really care? Or that bowling game or the Halloween party or the memes and the jokes and everything Keith thought was real friendship?

Was Keith just an obligation?

“Was he even my friend?” Keith breathes, and Shiro uncurls so fast that Keith nearly gets whiplash as his brother meets his gaze.

“Keith—”

But Keith can’t look into those matching eyes, so he pulls up the lock on the door and runs from the car. He doesn’t care that he left his jacket in the back or that the November night air is biting into his skin. It almost clears his thoughts as he runs onto the street, sprinting blocks away so he can’t hear Shiro’s voice.

Pulling out his phone, Keith dials Lance’s number.

“Hey Keith! What’s up, man?” Lance’s tone is jovial, something that Keith would’ve leaned into and fought to memorize. But now it turns his blood to frost.

Keith exhales, watching the puff of his breath against the streetlights. The words feel syrupy in his throat, and each one aches to be spoken, “You knew Shiro?”

“Yeah, you introduced him at the Halloween party.” Lance’s tone is light, but they have been friends for months — or Lance has at least been pretending to be. He knows that tone, the stiffness to Lance’s words like he’s struggling to say something.

“No, before that.”

“Keith, I don’t—”

“ _Don’t lie!_ ” Keith curls into himself, one hand clenching at his thigh like that might stabilize him in any way. “Shiro just told me. So that’s all this was? Just some favor for my older brother?”

Lance’s gasp is almost inaudible over the rush of cars on the street and the honking that echoes from blocks away. But Keith hears it.

“Of course not! I couldn’t—”

Keith tips his head back, wishing there were stars to see in the city’s night sky. But there’s only the faint illumination of the buildings against a cloudless sky. “Why?”

“Shiro said you needed help, and I wasn’t about to let someone struggle with the loss of their soulmate alone. I’d already been doing that.” Lance swallows audibly like he’s fighting down his own tears. “But you’re an awesome guy, Keith. Why wouldn’t I want to be friends with you? Sure, I started talking to you because of Shiro, but he’s not the reason we’re friends.”

Keith bites down on his lip, fighting off the tears that sting his eyes.

Is this why they call them crushes? Because they always left you feeling crushed, shattered beyond repair. But even if it wasn’t a crush, the loss of Lance’s friendship is like a bullet to the chest or an uppercut to the jaw that leaves him reeling and dizzy.

“I just don’t know what to think.”

Lance’s exhale is watery, something Keith recognizes from their early morning phone call. “There’s nothing to think about. We’re friends, Keith.”

“I don’t know if I can believe that.”

Keith pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up. Ignoring the messages from Shiro, Keith debates who he can call — who is truly his friend?

But his contact list is tainted with Shiro’s and Lance’s fingerprints. So Keith digs his hands into his pockets and starts walking.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Was that foreshadowing all the way at the end of chapter 2??? _(:3 」∠)_
> 
> A wonderful reminder that all of the art for this Big Bang was done by the amazing Elle Gee!! (≧◡≦) ♡ Please check her out and give her all the love she deserves on her [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/ellegee2018/?hl=en), [twitter](https://twitter.com/ellegee2018), and [tumblr](https://ellegee2018.tumblr.com/)!!


	7. Newly-Minted Grey Eyes

The 24-hour diner is grubby, something so far off the beaten path that Keith wonders if the only people that wander in here are like him — looking for something, whether it be an escape from the cold or the bitterest, sludgest cup of coffee at three in the morning.

The heat of the diner burns his skin as he feels himself finally uncurl in a sticky, red-vinyl covered booth. The menu sits on the table with pictures of mildly appetizing food on brown rimmed plates in a faded color scheme. Without even asking, the waitress sets down a cup of coffee.

He glances up at her, wondering if she sees the bloodshot quality to his eyes or the way he’s still shivering from the cold.

“Looked like you needed this. It’s on the house.” Her tone is thick with an accent that sounds straight out of a sitcom. Her hair is a frizzy, blonde mess that’s pinned back with a hairband that matches the stained apron of her diner uniform. She slides her notepad back into the large pocket of her arpon and gives him a warm smile. “Just wave me over if you feel like ordering. Okay, kid?”

But before Keith can answer, she’s gone with a breeze smelling like maple syrup, grease, and bleach.

Pulling his hands from his lap, he cups the coffee until his fingers burn from the transition from the cold outdoors. He leans over the cup and inhales the steam. It smells pungently caffeinated. But Keith already feels so dreamily awake — his mind is shrouded in fog like he hasn’t slept in a hundred years, but he knows that if he laid his head down, sleep would never come.

His phone buzzes rapidly in his pocket, and Keith vows to look at it once he’s defrosted.  


꧁❤꧂

  
The first few messages are from Lance, all sounding like they were spilled directly into text without thought for how they would come across.

**Lance✨💙🦈 (1:39AM)**  
_Please answer the phone_

**Lance✨💙🦈 (1:45AM)**  
_What do you want me to say? Shiro asked me to talk to you once you got to group, but I’m not friends with you just because of that. Do you really think I would text and call you all the time if we weren’t friends?_  
_I even told you about Cynthia. Does that mean nothing to you?_

**Lance✨💙🦈 (1:57AM)**  
_I didn’t mean it like that_  
_I just don’t know how else to explain myself_  
_No one’s ever asked me to prove that I’m their friend before_

**Lance✨💙🦈 (1:59AM)**  
_But I’ll give you time. Just call me when you’re ready to talk._

There are a couple messages from Shiro, but Keith would rather swallow a spoonful of nails than open that thread. So he clicks on the three messages he has from Adam.

**Adam (1:51AM)**  
_Can you please let us know that you’re safe?_  
_You don’t have to tell us where you are. Any answer would be okay._

**Adam (2:47AM)**  
_Keith please._

**Adam (3:05AM)**  
_Shiro is ready to call the police or force Pidge to track your phone._  
_Please just answer._

The last one is time stamped from twenty minutes ago.

Keith clicks into his messages with Shiro, almost deleting them all without reading them so he can pretend he never got them. But the first message stops him — makes the coffee feel like the only warm thing in the entire diner.

**Shiro (1:32AM)**  
_Keith please come home._

**Shiro (1:33AM)**  
_We can talk about this later, but I don’t want you wandering around out there in the cold._

**Shiro (1:38AM)**  
_I’ll call for a taxi or an uber or Matt. Please just let me know you’re safe somewhere._  
_You don’t even have to come home. You can go to Lance and Hunk’s. I’ll even pay for someone to take you all the way to your mom’s._  
_Please just answer._

**Shiro (1:55AM)**  
_It’s okay to be mad at me, but please let me know you’re safe._

**Shiro (2:05AM)**  
_Lance said that you called him. Where are you, Keith?_

**Shiro (2:07AM)**  
_Sorry, I should haven’t called him, but we’re all worried._

**Shiro (2:15AM)**  
_It’s 45 degrees out, and you don’t even have your coat. Please tell me you found somewhere to go._

**Shiro (2:53AM)**  
_Keith, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I was only trying to help you. And just when I saw you with Lance tonight, I was so afraid that you’d fallen for him just because I put him on your radar. Like I was the reason your heart would inevitably be broken._  
_But Lance didn’t hurt you tonight. I did._

**Shiro (3:01AM)**  
_I’m seriously about to call the police if you don’t answer._

Keith looks at his phone, debating if he should answer, debating if he can overcome his stubbornness and his pride.

Shouldn’t Shiro be used to this? Used to the way Keith pushes everyone away? Maybe they’re out of practice since it’s been a little less than ten years. But the defiance settles around him like a familiar routine.

He’s just locked his phone, ready to shove it in his pocket when Pidge’s contact pops up on his screen. Denying their call, he’s about to silence his phone when they call again. And again and again. More persistent than Shiro or Lance.

He gets one single text from them.

 **Pidge (3:32AM)**  
_Fine. Have it your way._

Keith shrugs and shoves his phone into his pocket. He waves the waitress over and asks if his coffee can be heated up in the microwave.

Giving him a soft smile, she plucks the ceramic cup from his fingers and disappears into the kitchen. When she returns, she’s not only holding a steaming cup of fresh coffee but a side plate of homefries.

“You look a bit famished,” she comments as she places the dish in front of him. Keith can’t even form words as he glances up at her. “You look like you’ve had a rough night.” She pats him on the shoulder and steps away.

He touches the cheek beneath his grey eye, wondering if this kind waitress thinks he’s just lost his soulmate — that’s why he’s come wandering into her diner in the middle of the night, like a ghost searching for something he lost.

When she walks by his table again only minutes later, Keith feels the urge to correct her.

“Excuse me.”

She raises one eyebrow while one hand is propped on her hip. “Figure out what you want to order?”

“I didn’t lose my soulmate tonight.” He’s stumbling over the words. They still feel so unfamiliar in his mouth, no matter how many times he’s repeated them in the mirror or at group. “I lost them sixteen years ago. So if all of this is because of that, I can’t accept your kindness when I don’t deserve—”

“Honey,” she places a gentle hand on his shoulder. Normally Keith would recoil for a foreign touch, but there’s something in the warmth of her sapphire gaze that stops him. “I didn’t give you all this because of your eyes. I didn’t even need to see your eye color to know you’re heartbroken. I only wish there was more I could do, sugar, but unfortunately, we just cleared out all the deserts in the display case.” Her grip tightens, and Keith feels tears welling in his eyes. “Let me know if you want to order something special, alright?”

Keith nods because he can’t find the words.

He glances down at her name tag to see “Gladys” is printed in peeling white letters. She gives him a warm smile and whisks off to wipe down the bar for a second time tonight.

Keith’s picking at the homefries, wondering why they taste like ash in his mouth, when the door to the diner bursts open. Standing in the threshold, with flushed cheeks and a wicked grin, is Pidge. They have a green scarf unevenly tied around their neck, and they’re holding a phone to their ear.

“Got him,” they declare before hanging up the phone and sliding into the booth across from Keith.

Without another word, they grab his lukewarm cup of coffee and drink it all without blinking. They unwind their scarf and unzip their coat, leaning back in the booth and piercing Keith with a weighted look. Popping a homefry into their mouth, they talk around it, “So, want to talk about why you went AWOL?”

“No.”

“Well, at least now you don’t have to text Shiro back.” They grab the ketchup from the edge of the table and squirt it all over the fries. “You owe me one for that.”

Keith wishes he still had his coffee cup to wrap his hands around, to give them something to do rather than fidgeting and tearing his napkin to shreds. “Shiro’s the one that owes you. He started all this.”

“Because he was friends with Lance in college?”

Keith wishes the betrayal hurt less every time. “So you knew about this too?”

“Yeah, Lance would never stop talking about his ‘ _big_.’” They enunciate the fraternity mentor title like it’s something vile, and Keith hates that he can’t stop his smile at their tone. “Hunk and I didn’t realize you didn’t know until the Halloween party, but we still shouldn’t have kept it from you.”

Keith shrugs with one shoulder and meets Gladys’ gaze as she marches over to the table with a new cup of coffee. She places it in front of Keith before turning to Pidge. “Want to order anything?”

Pidge glances at the menu in front of Keith, tilting their head to the side to read upside down. “Blueberry pancakes and a side of bacon, please.”

“Sure thing. And you, sugar?” She turns to Keith, but he shakes his head. The single homefry he ate is sitting like lead in his stomach. The waitress nods and just as she’s turning to leave, Pidge reaches for the new cup of coffee. With lightning reflexes, Gladys pushes the coffee out of their reach and into Keith’s hands. “Did you want a cup of coffee too?” Her smile is mischievous, and Keith can’t help but think it looks so similar to Pidge’s.

They mumble, “Yes.”

With a nod of her head, Gladys disappears into the kitchen, leaving him and Pidge in silence.

“Am I being overdramatic?” It’s a whisper, a thing he didn’t really want anyone other than his coffee to hear.

Pidge hums, shrugging one shoulder. “Depends on who you ask. The first time Lance got a C minus on an assignment he looked up the closest job fair and went with a handful of resumes and a wrinkled dress shirt. He was convinced he was going to flunk out of college. And of course, because he’s a stubborn jackass, it took Hunk and I hours to find him. So compared to Lance, this is nothing.”

Keith wishes he could stop his smile, stop the way it pulls at his heart and only emphasizes the growing wound in his chest.

“So what’s the big hold up?”

“Huh?”

Pidge rolls their eyes and leans further over the table. “What’s the issue with Lance knowing Shiro?”

Keith fiddles with his cup of coffee, tilting it to the side and watching how slowly the liquid shifts. It’s really from the dredges of the pot. “Shiro asked Lance to be friends with me. I just — I’m not anyone’s obligation.” His gaze jumps to Pidge’s, unable to fight the fire that sparks in his stomach at the notion.

Because even though he’s sitting in this diner, the rage is just waiting beneath the surface.

Pidge’s lips twitch into a barely concealed smile.

“What?” Keith growls.

“It’s just,” Pidge shakes their head and props their chin up on their interlaced fingers, “Lance may have been a drama kid in high school, but he can’t hide his emotions for shit.” There’s a playful glint to their chestnut eyes.

And Keith wants to ask, wants to ask what it’s like to be born with a matching set, to be whole without the need to search for another. But he curls his hands a little tighter around the mug and leans in a little closer as Pidge talks about their time in college with Lance.

“There was this one guy we went to college with, James Griffin, and because of some girl drama that I can’t remember, Lance hated the guy.” They wave their hands, enunciating the way Lance does when he’s telling an elaborate story, as if he’s hoping it’ll spin right off his fingertips and into the air. “And of course they had like _all_ of their gen-eds together freshman year.

“One day, Hunk asked why Lance and Griffin hadn’t made up yet, even though they were in like four different study groups together. Supposedly they came to a truce awhile ago, so Hunk asked, ‘Oh, then why do you still hate the guy?’” Pidge tips their head back and laughs, a faint one that shakes their shoulders more than makes a sound. “So that whole time, Lance thought he was being perfectly subtle about his dislike for Griffin, but it was obvious to anyone that saw them together.”

Keith lifts his coffee cup to his lips, inhaling deeply and hiding his smile.

“So Lance’s a terrible actor.” Keith shrugs.

Pidge rolls their eyes half-heartedly. “He’ll tell you that his high school performance as Master of the House was stunning. But yeah, he’s not great.”

“So?” Keith pulls the cup away from his lips without drinking a sip. Maybe it’s the lingering smell of bleach that makes everything here so unappetizing. Or maybe it’s the weight of this discovery that still sits on his chest like a boulder.

“I’m saying that Lance wasn’t friends with you just because Shiro asked him to be.” Their voice is low and slow like they’re explaining something to a child.

Keith recoils at the sound, and that rage that was bubbling just beneath the surface, boils over. “Are you here as my friend or as Lance’s?” It’s a snarl, an ugly thing that makes Keith think of spitting out his mouthguard with a mouthful of blood.

“Why can’t it be both?”

Keith sets the mug down as gently as he can, because he wants to crush it in his fingers, to feel it shatter against his palms.

When he doesn’t answer, Pidge reaches forward and taps his forearm to draw his gaze to theirs. “I’m your friend Keith. So is Hunk and so is Lance. Why’s it so hard to believe that we want to be friends with you?”

“Because no one else has wanted to be before,” Keith grumbles under his breath as his eyes dart to the window at his side. In the distance, he can see the faintest scattering of building lights flickering on.

Even before he lost his soulmate, he was never an extrovert, never popular, never the kid that led make-believe or kickball games or climbed the highest tree or garnered attention. He was quiet and content with the few friends he had; the ones that would smile wide with all of their missing teeth and pull him into fun games, where they brandished sticks and fought off imaginary dragons to protect their soulmates.

But suddenly after Keith’s eye turned grey, that game wasn’t so fun anymore.

Nobody wanted to take his hand and invite him to games or birthday parties. No one laughed beside him or threw their chicken nuggets against their lunch trays to see how high they bounced.

He was fine with being alone, because he had never been lonely.

But that day changed everything.

He lost so much more than just his soulmate.

“We want to, Keith.” Pidge’s voice is soft, even for the stark silence of the diner.

His gaze falls from the distant buildings and the memories that swarm at the notion of losing friends. “Thanks,” he mumbles and pulls himself from the sticky, vinyl booth. “I think I’m going to go home. Training tomorrow.”

Pidge quickly slams a twenty on the table even though they never received their pancakes and scurries after him. “How are you getting home?”

“Walking.”

“Matt’s in the parking lot. We can give you a lift.” They sound a little panicked as he pushes open the front door.

A gust of wind blows back his hair and slithers up the length of his sleeves. It’s colder than he remembers. Maybe he was too numb on his walk here to really feel the bite of the cold.

“It’s not that far,” Keith says, but he’s not even sure where he is.

“It’s almost freezing out here,” but they must see something in his expression that illustrates his stubbornness. “Ugh,” they groan, unwinding the scarf from around their neck and draping it over Keith’s shoulders, “at least use this.”

He fingers the fringe, and before he can attempt to give it back, they’re sprinting off through the parking lot and jumping into a parked car.

It feels so much heavier than just a scarf. Winding it around his neck, Keith breathes in the faded scent of jasmine and wishes it was cloves and sea salt.  


꧁❤꧂

  
At the sound of the door swinging open, Shiro jolts awake from his slumped position on the couch. His eyes are wide and wild, and Keith can see the imprint of the cushion on his cheek. Adam is slower to rise, shaking his head and rubbing at his eyes.

“Keith, you’re home. Are you alright? Where were you? What happened?” Shiro jumps to his feet, marching around the couch with extended hands and worry emanating off of him like a bad smell.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Keith growls, not even sparing Adam a glance as he pins Shiro with his heterochromatic eyes.

“Keith—”

Keith jerks out of reach of his brother’s hands. “I’m going to bed.”

He slams his door closed, relishing in the way it rattles on the hinges and echoes through the house. It’s an immature feeling, one that rages against pity and authority and Shiro’s parental wisdom. It makes him want to sink back into his high school patterns — find a bottle of something cheap and down it before anyone can blink an eye. They’ll all say it has to do with his grey eye, the sign of something unwanted marring his face. They’ll let him stumble home drunk, because he’ll find his way, and if he doesn’t, it’s just the gods finally forgiving his sins. The sins that cost him his soulmate, his future.

The glass of water still sits on his nightstand from the night he heard Adam and Shiro talk about moving out. He wants to smash it against the wall, but instead he falls into bed in his jeans. Curling underneath the weight of the blankets, he hopes he doesn’t dream about Lance.  


꧁❤꧂

  
“Keith, baby,” Lance whispers, all temptation and lust, and Keith salivates at the sound.

Moaning, he arches into Lance’s hands. Confident hands that trace warm patterns over Keith’s skin like they’ve memorized every coil of muscle and curve of bone, like they’ve memorized Keith from the inside out. He’s a slave to those hands, pushing him in every direction that steadily guides him higher.

“My soulmate,” Lance breathes as Keith shivers around him, and wishes this was more than a nightmare disguised as a dream.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Keith debates on not going to group. He would rather wallow in the soreness of his muscles and the gaping ache in his heart. But like a clock set to ring on the hour, Keith rises and dons snow boots, Pidge’s scarf, and the thickest jacket he has (he hasn’t been warm since friendsgiving).

He arrives five minutes late so he can sneak in, nodding quickly to Allura, and settles into the seat next to his normal spot. One seat away from Lance.

Allura seems to pause, eyes darting to the emptiness, the gap that sits between him and Lance. Her gaze narrows before she continues, jotting something down as she speaks.

The beginning of group passes relatively normally, except that Keith feels even colder with the yawning distance between him and Lance. But he focuses on the other members instead of his trembling hands.

Heather is slumped against one of the chairs, hair less matted and pulled away from her face in a high ponytail, ends still tangled and eyes still bloodshot, but she looks better every week. Her fingers are playing with the fraying hem of her sweatshirt as she stumbles around her words.

“It’s been almost six months since,” and she almost can’t finish the sentence, but she steals herself and continues, “Amir died, and sometimes, I —” she swallows and her hands tremble in her lap, “sometimes, I wish that we’d never met.” Her voice is escalating like she can’t hold back the cacophony of her horrible thoughts, “Like this whole fucking thing would be easier if we hadn’t met and I didn’t know — didn’t know all these wonderful things about him. Like if I hadn’t gotten used to having him in my life, the hole in my heart would be smaller.”

With a sigh, she relaxes and visibly forces her hands to relax. “I know it’s horrible, but how do you even mourn someone you don’t even know?”

Her gaze is pinned to the ground like she’s afraid to meet everyone’s gaze and be criticized by the thoughts that haunt her. She’s even turned her body away from Antoni who was sitting right next to her, shoulders hunched like that could hide her from their scorn.

“Are you really trying to say,” Antoni begins, words cut off by Allura’s firm gaze as if she can calm his caustic reaction just by her eyes alone. With a forced exhale, Antoni uncurls his fists and clenches them to the armrests of his chair instead. “At least you don’t have to wonder what they were like. You know their family, their friends. You can mourn together, but — but I have nothing.”

If it was even possible, Heather looks even smaller.

And Keith can’t help the horrible thoughts that whisper in his mind, agitated and rising to the surface from everything she said, from everything this weekend, from the sixteen years since he lost his future.

“I kind of agree with Heather,” Keith breathes, watching the way her head snaps up and he almost freezes under that matching, grey gaze. “I think this whole thing is easier because I never actually met my soulmate.”

Allura taps her pen against the clipboard. “Do you want to explain why you think it’s easier for you, Keith?”

He can see something beneath the open and accepting nature to Allura’s features. And he tries not to notice that as he steadies himself to continue.

“Well, I think it’s because of my parents,” Keith says, hoping that’s enough of an explanation, but Allura tilts her head and smiles encouragingly. With a sharp sigh, Keith pulls at the fraying edges of his gloves and continues, voice sounding stronger than it feels in his throat, “My dad was a firefighter, and one day when he was on service, my mom woke up with grey eyes.” He shrugs like it’s not a big deal, like the memory isn’t clawing at the coffin he’d buried it in, desperate to escape.

What he doesn’t say is the horror that once turned his blood to ice, rupturing the thin valves of his heart and threatening to drown him in sorrow.

And without consent, the memory exhumes itself and threatens to suffocate him:

_Keith struggled to hold the full carton of orange juice over the small glass cup without spilling it. The scent of bacon and eggs saturated the air and the soft breeze that blew through the open window above the sink. Shiro stood at the stove, humming along to whatever was playing on the radio and tapping his feet to the beat. His grandfather was perched in at the kitchen table, reading their morning paper and spilling drops of coffee onto the crinkled pages._

_It was a normal Saturday morning._

_Better than normal because Shiro and his grandfather had come over, and his mom had talked about taking them all to the aquarium — something about inspiration for her next photography trip._

_If only Shiro had agreed to make pancakes, then this would’ve been the best kind of Saturday morning._

_There was the heavy plodding of his mom’s footsteps down the stairs, and Shiro grabbed an extra plate from the cabinet at the sound. She’d been up most of the night, catching up on housework that had piled up over the week with his dad working late shifts at the firehouse._

_“What’s for breakfast?” his mom asked, rubbing at her eyes and yawning widely._

_Keith glanced up from the half-full glass of orange juice only to catch his mother’s gaze and wide smile. The once vibrant chestnut of her eyes, like the rings of a cut tree, were dulled to the color of underdeveloped photos. They were grey. Like ashes. Like death._

_The carton slipped from Keith’s fingers and smashed against the table, sending the cup careening to the floor and splattering juice across the tiles. Gasping, his mom rushed forward to right the carton as it gurgled and emptied onto the floor. But Keith was frozen, stunned into silence by the lack of color in his mom’s irises._

_Shiro had turned sharply, reaching to pick up the remains of the shattered glass. With a hiss, his brother pulled back, stumbling backwards as he met Keith’s mom’s gaze. His finger, cut by the glass, welled with blood and dripped onto his pajama pants._

_“What’s going —” His mom began, but cut herself off with a choked gasp. Rushing to the bathroom, Keith only heard the clatter and muffled scream._

_Keith’s legs slowly gave out as he sunk to the ground, knees soaking up the orange juice that puddled on the kitchen floor._

Shrugging half-heartedly in a poor attempt to stay casual, Keith settles further back in his seat and keeps his gaze on Allura, almost afraid to meet anyone else’s eyes. “They couldn’t recover his body from the embers, and the whole thing nearly killed my mom. Like I had to live with the neighbors as my guardians for years, because she was almost declared an unfit parent. She went galavanting around the world trying to find herself in her photography.”

Too much had spilled from his lips, too much bitterness saturated his tone.

She’d abandoned him, left him to rot as she took her camera and newly-minted grey eyes and barely stayed long enough for the soil to settle on his father’s grave.

She was one of those daredevil nature photographers that would climb to the highest mountains or scuba dive to the deepest depths, just to get the perfect picture. And Keith would have nightmares that one day the infrequent postcards would stop arriving, that she would disappear. That they wouldn’t find her body. That they wouldn’t even have his dad’s eyes to tell them if she was dead.

But she’d returned, appearing in the changing room after one of his first professional MMA matches. The camera was still slung around her neck, but she smiled so wide that Keith felt like he was a child again. Plucking the camera up, she said, “Can I get a picture of the winner? Wait, Keith — why are you crying?”

He’d squeezed her in a hug — not caring about the sweat that saturated his clothes and dripped from his hair — but it was different. He could peer over her shoulder, he could envelope her small frame in his arms. He was older, and there was so much time between them.

Shaking his head to clear the memories that threaten to suffocate him, Keith says, “So I think the reason why I’m okay now is because I never met my soulmate.”

“How —” Antoni growls, standing up abruptly with fists clenched tightly at his sides, “how can you count this as any sort of a blessing?” His face is red and his eyes hold this kind of burning horror Keith hasn’t even seen in his opponents in the ring.

“I wasn’t saying that —”

“That wasn’t what you were saying?” Antoni snaps with a feral snarl in his voice as he steps forward. “Maybe you were meant to be alone, Keith, but some of us appreciated that the universe thought we deserved a soulmate.” With a bitter laugh, Antoni continues, heterochromatic eyes welling with tears, “Or maybe you just don’t have a fucking soul.”

Without another word, Antoni turns and marches out of the room, slamming the red door behind him so loud that a shiver races down Keith’s spine.

Allura turns to him and attempts to speak, but Keith doesn’t answer, fingernails digging into the meat of his biceps and teeth grinding. He doesn’t answer for the rest of the session, and he merely shrugs off Lance when he approaches him after the meeting.

“Keith,” Lance’s voice wavers, but Keith clips his helmet on and takes off out of the parking lot with a rumble.  


꧁❤꧂

  
The only light in his room is from his phone screen, so bright it makes his eyes water. He’s scrolling through the #GreyEyePride hashtag on instagram and twitter, hoping to find something that fills the gaping hole within him.

Dug deeper by Caster. By Antoni. By Lance and Shiro and all the people he trusted.

But all he sees is bright smiles, inspirational posts, and the mask of social media. Because it’s clear how all of this is just a coping mechanism and only a few are truly happy or content with their lives.

Is there a kind of pride in surviving? Or is it just a mask for survivor’s guilt?

There’s a soft knock on his bedroom door, but Keith ignores it, locking his phone and burying his face in his pillow. Each breath leaves his lips in soft puffs that verge on sobs. He can’t see anyone right now, because he’ll rip at the seams. It’ll be like when Lance held him in the bathroom after the disastrous Halloween party, but with the ever-present ache of Lance’s absence.

Without waiting for an answer, Shiro opens the door, figure silhouetted in the threshold by the hallway light. “Do you want to talk about it?” he whispers.

If Keith speaks, the barely-contained sobs will break from his lungs in a torrent that he won’t be able to stop. So he doesn’t say anything. Just digs his fingers deeper into the sheets and inhales the scent of fabric softener.

In the wake of silence, Shiro walks into the room and slides next to Keith in the bed, pulling his brother against his chest. And Keith doesn’t want to admit how quickly he forgives Shiro or how quickly he breaks apart in those familiar arms, how his fingers twine in his clothes and how his breathing is ragged, struggling to stop his loud sobs.

Like all of the times as a kid that Keith would crawl into Shiro’s bed, burrow against his side and pretend that his eyes were normal and his mom wasn’t absent.

And Shiro doesn’t say anything, just brushes his fingers through Keith’s hair and breathes steadily. A beach for each wave of Keith’s sobs to batter against.

He eventually falls asleep curled against Shiro.  


꧁❤꧂

  
“You know I don’t forgive you, right?” Keith mumbles around a mouthful of his protein shake. The memory of falling asleep next to Shiro, like he was still a child, lingers like a faint heat across his chest. It’s warm and comforting in a way that Keith wants to deny.

Adam already left for work at the high school, kissing Shiro on the cheek and gently patting Keith on the shoulder before running out the door. It left the house warbling on a precipice, strung between the party on Friday and group yesterday.

Shiro glances up from his phone, fork paused inches away from his lips. “I know. You still won’t look me in the eyes.”

As if to prove him wrong, Keith slowly raises his gaze and meets his brother’s matching eyes. It’s the first time he notices how bloodshot they are and the bags that darken the skin beneath his lashes like bruises.

The petty part of him is glad that Shiro looks as bad as Keith feels. But the other part of him, the part that was so relieved when Shiro comforted him like he was still a child, can’t help but feel guilty.

“Have you talked to Lance?” Shiro asks, placing his fork on his plate of half-finished breakfast. There’s equal parts weariness and wariness in his gaze, and Keith hates that he put it there.

“No.”

“Not even at group?”

Keith can’t help the snort of derisive laughter. “Group didn’t go so well yesterday.” He sharply motions to his bedroom as if last night was an ample example of how poorly group went.

Shiro pauses for a moment, expression curling into that half-formed state. His words are cautiously inflectionless. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Keith can’t help his bitter smile, both loving and hating that Shiro knows him so well. If he’d expressed interest or disinterest in hearing about group, Keith knows he would’ve grabbed his protein shake and disappeared for the rest of the day.

But now, he kind of wants to stay in the stagnant warmth of the house.

“You’re not supposed to talk about group outside of group, remember?” Keith raises an eyebrow and gives Shiro a playful smirk.

“Keith.”

He sighs, shaking his protein shake and enjoying the thudding of the metal ball inside, it mutes his thunderous thoughts. His hands still, and he can’t fight the urge to meet Shiro’s gaze. His brother’s expression is patient, and Keith collapses beneath it.

“It’s just —” he sighs, running a hand through his hair and tugging on the messy ponytail at the nape of his neck, “—this one girl was talking about how she wished that she never met her soulmate, because it would be easier. And I kind of agreed.”

Shiro hums and picks at his omlette with the edge of his fork. By the furrow of his brow and the way his expression sinks deeper into his look of contemplation, Keith can see that Shiro’s milling over his words.

And probably for the first time, Keith gives him all the time in the world to answer.

“Do you really think this has been easy for you?” Shiro asks, and Keith can hear the edge of genuine curiosity.

“Easy?” Keith’s lips pull back in a snarl on instinct. “No. But I don’t think it hit me as hard as it did my mom. I mean, you know. My dad’s death almost destroyed her.” He shrugs one shoulder, copying Lance’s permanent nonchalance. “I didn’t think there was any coming back from where she went.”

Shiro hums in that contemplative way that sets Keith on edge, but he’s already surrendered to Shiro’s careful process of handling him. His brother’s features are furrowing back into that thinking face, the one that he uses to compile all of his words. And Keith continues to let him have all the time he needs.

He plays with the lid of his shake, watching as the remnants drip to the bottom.

“I guess you were too little to remember,” Shiro breathes.

“Remember what?”

“When your soulmate died, Keith.” His voice is quiet, gentle as if he’s afraid of scaring Keith away with even the gentlest of sounds. Shiro leans forward and props his chin on his interlaced fingers. “Do you not remember when it happened? How about those two weeks after? Or your last few years in elementary school?”

Keith doesn’t answer. He has some rose-tinted memories from when both of his parents were alive: Saturday mornings with Shiro and his parents, making funnily shaped pancakes and decorating them with chocolate chips; or the only photography trip his mom invited him and his dad on, where they played in the shallows of Hanauma Bay and climbed to the top of Diamond Head; or the Christmas where his dad got him a skateboard and taught him how to ride it even though it was cold enough to burn their fingertips.

He can pull out certain memories, like the first time he did a book report in front of the entire class or the year his mom has convinced him to play the trumpet and how his parents wore ear plugs around the house when he was practicing.

But the rest is hazy. 

“It was like you were a ghost.” Shiro hums, eyes leaving Keith’s to fixate on his plate and the rapidly cooling breakfast. “You used to be this exuberant kid. If we talked about something you liked, you could go on for hours. You were so fascinated with everything and wanted to learn so much. And you always had a million ideas for games to play or little shows to put on.

“But,” Shiro sighs, threading his fingers through his hair in that same agitated gesture he used all the time when Keith was in high school. Now, it just looks like Shiro’s floundering and trying to steady himself. Maybe he’d been trying to steady himself back then too. “You could barely eat, saying that you could feel his pain. Krolia and Tex took you to the doctor’s because they were worried it was an adverse effect of the soulmate bond. They said there was nothing wrong other than bereavement, but I think we all felt it.

“I don’t think I saw you smile for months.” There’s a hollowness to Shiro’s words that Keith hasn’t heard since his father’s funeral. Even when Keith was in high school chasing things to fill the gnawing emptiness within him, Shiro only ever pushed back with determination and tough-love.

Suddenly there’s a tightness in Keith’s throat that makes it hard to swallow, a burning behind his eyes that suspiciously feels like tears.

Shiro tips his head up and meets Keith’s gaze with a glossiness to his eyes. “I don’t think losing someone important is easy for anyone.”

“You can’t diminish your grief just because you think someone else has it worse,” Keith mumbles under his breath, words heavy with the memory of Lance’s warm smile and warm fingers on Keith’s shoulder and warm encouragement.

“Exactly.”

Standing abruptly, Shiro scrapes his cold left-overs into the trashcan and sets his plate in the skin. “Well, I’m off to work. Matt was excited about the approval for an experiment of his. Adam’s thinking of soup for dinner in case I can’t hold any food down after test piloting today. Don’t let Acxa run you down, okay? You have a match soon, so don’t push yourself too hard.”

Keith nods stiffly as Shiro disappears into his and Adam’s bedroom, appearing five minutes later in a business casual outfit that Keith will never grow accustomed to seeing on his brother.

“Shiro,” he says just as his brother is sliding on a pair of shoes.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Shiro gives him a warm smile, and Keith is reminded of how Shiro shushed his cries and comforted him until he fell asleep — how even while they were fighting, Shiro had never left Keith on his own.

“I, uh,” Keith flounders, “I forgive you. For the whole Lance thing.”

Whatever tension was held in Shiro’s shoulders dissipates. “You know it’s okay if you don’t forgive me, right?”

“I know.” Keith gives him a small smile, because forgiveness was a thing they barely acknowledged in their relationship. Normally the tension would just naturally disappear between them, until it was like nothing happened at all. But Keith is glad he’d said something from the sincere grin on Shiro’s features.

With a sharp wave, Shiro locks the door behind him and heads off to work, leaving Keith in the warmth of the apartment.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Keith realizes he’s never actually been to the aquarium on South when he drives around for fifteen minutes trying to find the parking lot before just saying “fuck it” and using street parking three blocks away. The facade is familiar: all wide, glimmering windows and arching beams that give the impression that it’s an enormous wave about to crash over the pavement.

He stands outside for a moment, debating whether or not he actually wants to go inside.

Does he actually want to see Lance? Is $45 too much to look at a bunch of fish? Is he willing to brave the crowd when there’s already a thirty person line outside the aquarium — that can’t bode well for the number of people within.

He actually thought it might not be busy since it’s the day before Thanksgiving. Obviously he was wrong.

With a harsh sigh, Keith pulls his jacket a little tighter around himself and stands in line. Each minute that passes, Keith has to convince himself to stay here rather than return home to the promise of warm soup.

His hair is still wet from the gym this morning. Acxa had agreed to a later time than normal, and Keith was a little thrown off with eating breakfast with Adam and Shiro rather than sneaking out at the crack of dawn. His muscles burn with a satisfying ache. But each moment he stands out in the cold makes the ache turn more and more unpleasant.

When he finally steps into the warmth of the aquarium, he unwinds himself and straightens.

A bright smile greets him at the front desk. The receptionist’s blonde hair is pulled up into two twin pigtails that should look ridiculous on someone of her age, but they make her look playful and approachable. “Good afternoon. Welcome to the Wimbleton-Smythe Aquarium. How may I help you today?”

Keith fumbles for his wallet. “I, uh, I — Lance Serrano.” He hates how the only thing he can say without stuttering is Lance’s name. “Is Lance working today? I was hoping to see him.”

She pauses, tilting her head to the side as if regarding him.

“Sorry,” Keith shoves his wallet back into his pocket harshly. “I should just go.”

“Are you Keith?” Her voice stops him. He nods slowly, and if he thought her grin from before was bright, the one she gives him now clearly outshines it. “Sorry, it took me a minute. I wasn’t sure if that qualifies as a mullet or not. Lance has complained about it, but I think it suits you—”

“What—”

“I’m Romelle! I normally work in the back with Lance, but I guess there’s a flu going around because a bunch of people called out sick. Or maybe it’s the holidays.” She’s fumbling through a couple papers and still wearing that blinding smile. “So I’m working front desk and Lance is giving a tour in,” she pauses as she continues to flick through papers, “five minutes. They meet beneath the dolphin statue.”

She reaches over the desk and grabs Keith’s hand. Winding a wristband around his wrist, she continues to talk. “You’ll need this for entrance, and don’t worry about it. It’s on the house for Lance’s _friend_.”

Keith’s not sure he likes the connotation behind the word friend, but before he can say anything else, he’s being ushered along as another group steps up to the desk. Romelle’s smile is a little dimmer as she helps the next people.

He sees a small group gathered around the base of the dolphin statue, and he slowly makes his way over.

His breath catches in his chest at the sight.

Lance is crouching by a bunch of children with his hands balanced on his knees for support. His skin looks dulled in the fluorescent lighting of the aquarium, so unlike the golden-radiance Keith is accustomed to seeing. But his eyes are brighter than Keith has ever seen, almost appearing blue to match the polo he’s wearing. He’s obviously spinning a story, Keith can tell from the way he moves his hands even as they’re propped on his knees.

Even if Keith was contemplating running before Lance could spot him, he’s helplessly drawn in by Lance’s gravity.

When Keith gets close enough to hear Lance over the din of the crowd, he’s talking about dolphins, “The coolest fact about dolphins is that because they can’t see very well, they use echolocation to see—”

“Like bats?” a little girl shouts waving her hand in the air like she was asking for permission without waiting for it. Her curls bounce around her ears as she jumps on her toes.

“Exactly! They use clicking or whistling to see.” Lance’s smile is wide as he glances at the watch turned to face his inner left wrist. Standing up tall and brushing off his knees, Lance glances around at all of them gathered around for the tour. “Well, it’s almost 2pm, so I’m guessing you’re all here for the tour?”

Lance’s smile falters when his gaze lands on Keith. He already knows how awkward he looks, dressed in black in a sea of color. But he refuses to look away as he watches Lance’s face shift, lips parting in an exhale of Keith’s name.

“Sorry folks, the tour is cancelled.” Lance is floundering, pushing through the small crowd and grabbing a hold of Keith’s wrist. “Tours run every fifteen minutes from this exact spot. So feel free to take the 2:15 tour with Molly or take any other tour if you prefer not to continue waiting around. Thank you, and I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” Lance continues talking as he’s steadily pulling Keith towards a nondescript door on the edge of the building.

“Lance, you didn’t—”

“Just give me a second,” Lance grumbles to himself as he pulls a key from the lanyard clipped to his belt and unlocks the door. Pushing Keith inside, Lance quickly follows and closes the door behind him.

Keith glances around, expecting to see the walls painted with the same bright colors and murals as outside. But they’re all strangely blank. Almost a cream color in the dim, flickering lights. It’s a long hallway with a series of pale wooden doors dotting the walls. The briny scent of salt water saturates even this back hallway, the permanent stench of the aquarium.

“Staff entrance,” Lance explains as he walks in front of Keith.

And Keith wishes that he’d taken a second to study Lance’s expression instead of the dingy hallway so that it wasn’t hidden from him. So that he could know what Lance was thinking. So that maybe this might be easier to say.

“I was thinking that I could give you the real tour,” Lance says, continuing to speak without looking back at Keith or motioning with his hands, that are now clutched tightly at his sides. “So you can see where I work, and maybe if Florona is in a good mood, you can feed the sea lions or —”

“Lance—”

“— the dolphins. It depends on their shows today. We can’t feed them too much or they don’t—”

“Lance!” Keith hunches his shoulders as the boy’s name physically aches in his chest. “Stop, please. I—” with his curled position, he can’t look up to see Lance’s expression. He can only see the tips of Lance’s worn sneakers. “I came to apologize. I didn’t—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Lance’s voice is restrained and compassionate, and Keith’s eyes jump up to look at him. Lance shrugs his shoulders and gives Keith a demure smile — but it doesn’t sit quite right on his features. “I really understand. You honestly don’t have any reason to apologize. If anything, I should be the one explaining stuff.” Scratching at the back of his neck, he looks sheepish in a way Keith has never seen before.

And like he’s become desperate to know every part of Lance, Keith pushes forward.

He doesn’t realize how close to Lance he’s standing until he feels a slight breeze when Lance drops his hand to his side. Keith has to tilt his chin up ever so slightly to meet Lance’s eyes. But Lance only holds his gaze for a second before it too drops.

“Then why don’t you start explaining?” Keith whispers, afraid it’ll come out like a hiss or a demand. He’s genuinely curious, because between their constant texts and their infrequent late night calls, Keith expected to at least suspect something. Instead, he’d been too distracted by the all-consuming feelings within him.

Lance’s chest shudders with a rough exhale.

Keith bites down on the urge to push forward so he can feel the rise and fall of Lance’s chest with his hands. Memorize the unsteady thrum of his heartbeat. Trace each rib without looking. Learn everything his dreams have taunted.

“Sorry I didn’t say anything earlier.” Lance’s voice is nonchalant, almost playful, and if Keith hadn’t been sitting beside him at group for six months, he would’ve thought that Lance didn’t care. But he knows better. “I just — I didn’t know how you’d react if you knew Shiro asked me to look out for you.” It comes out like a confession, a subtle whisper of vulnerability like a train letting off steam.

Lance deflates, shoulders sinking and chin ducking. Keith refuses to acknowledge that Lance curls towards him — foreheads only a breath away, lips gently parted, and an addictive buzz that builds between them, like the night at Vrepit Sal’s or Friendsgiving. Because if he acknowledges it, Keith isn’t sure what he will do.

His hands twitch. Desperate to reach out and feel Lance. To determine this isn’t another dream where they fall into each other, only for him to wake up alone. But he digs his fingers into his palms to quell the urge.

“So that first day?” Keith breathes.

“I moved before I even thought about it. Allura was half-way through asking me to go check on you when I left the room.” Lance seems to bow deeper, like the weight of the confession is settling on his shoulders. “So I can’t say if it was exactly for Shiro or because I’ve been exactly where you were.”

Keith tilts his head to the side rather than say anything. He knows that Lance needs time to put together his thoughts, no matter how talkative he seems. It’s not strange that he and Shiro got along so well, both willing to wait while they pieced their arguments together.

Lance’s eyes meet Keith’s for a heartbeat, and they widen as if just now realizing how close they are. A breath away. Chests almost brushing with every inhale. His voice is breathy when he speaks, “I told you that for my first few sessions I just sat there in silence. So I kind of admired you when you not only spoke, but talked about your soulmate.”

And just like that, it’s as if a dam has broken and Lance can’t stop talking.

“It was also nice to meet Shiro’s infamous little brother after all these years. I mean, he would talk about you all the time back in college — still does when I talk to him. But it was kind of hard to connect the badass in a leather jacket with the stories of the kid who cried over a dead worm for four days or would read to Shiro’s grandfather when his eyesight started fading or painted over all of the gendered bathroom signs at his middle school. Actually that one was easy to picture.” Lance was using his hands to talk again, small gestures that don’t widen the space between them. “And I wanted to ask for embarrassing stories of Shiro so badly, that was probably the hardest part of not telling you.” He laughs, but it’s a halfhearted thing. 

Lance’s eyes drift from Keith’s eyes, like he’s memorizing the planes of his face. “Honestly, I really wanted to meet the boy Shiro described,” Lance whispers like it’s a confession. “The one who lost his soulmate so young but is still so strong.”

A flush rises in Keith’s cheeks, burning just under the skin as Lance describes him. He’s always been Shiro’s troublesome younger brother — the boy that got into fights and drank to forget. It’s hard to reconcile his high school actions with everything he’s done before and after that.

To know Shiro describes him like he’s some testament to soulmate survivors, makes tears burn at the back of Keith’s eyes.

When he finally speaks, it’s a choked thing. “Wow. I — Lance, I didn’t— I didn’t know. I’m glad we’re friends. It’s just been me and Shiro for so long, I — I really value our friendship.” He’s sure that the emphasis in his voice doesn’t capture the sway Lance has over his heart, but that’s probably for the best. “And thanks for all your help. I don’t think I would’ve kept going to group if you weren’t there, so—”

He’s suddenly cut off as Lance’s arms wind around his torso, crushing him into a warm embrace that smells like cloves and overwhelmingly like sea salt.

“Keith,” Lance breathes like he’s gasping for air. It’s only then that Keith notices how Lance’s fingers tremble as they curl into his shirt. “Thank you. I don’t know how to tell you this, but you helped me through the worst of it. Knowing that you got through all this bullshit, that you could still live a normal life after it all. I just— thank you.” His arms curl tighter around Keith’s torso, and Keith allows himself to indulge.

He winds his arms around Lance’s neck and twines his fingers through that carefully tousled hair. Turning his face in, he inhales the scent of Lance and steadies himself. The sea salt and cloves that have haunted his dreams. He wants to linger in the warming sensation that buzzes up his spine and fills his lungs with helium. If he closes his eyes, Keith thinks he might just float away.

But Lance pulls back, fingers trailing lines of heat across Keith’s body before leaving him bereft.

Lance scratches at the back of his neck, but Keith catches the tips of Lance’s ears darkening even through the curling ends of his hair.

They take a cursory step away from each other, widening the once-shrinking distance between them. “Sorry about that,” Lance chuckles, but there’s a strange stiffness to his voice. Clearing his throat, he continues, “Pidge always tells me I’m melodramatic. But did you want to stay and hang out? I was serious about feeding the sea lions.”

Even if Keith had plans today, he would’ve cancelled them to see the look on Lance’s face when he says yes.

Practically skipping down the length of the hallway, Lance laughs, “I hope you don’t like those clothes, because they’ll be smelling like salt water forever.”

And Keith doesn’t think he’ll mind, because he knows it’ll remind him of Lance.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Lance gives him the full tour of the museum, avoiding the steady buzz of his phone in his pocket. Keith wants to protest that Lance should get back to work, especially as they weave through crowds of people. But Lance doesn’t seem to want to.

“It’s not technically my job anyway,” Lance sighs as he piles slimy fish into a pale bucket. “I was supposed to be finalizing my grant proposal, but instead I was giving tours and dealing with people.”

“I thought you were a people person though.” Keith leans his weight on his hip, crossing his arms and ignoring the sweat that rapidly cools on the back of his neck. The small walk-in freezer was a relief to the cloying warmth of the aquarium with its heated waters and abundance of people.

“I am. I just —” Lance tips his head back, looking at Keith from the corner of his eye, “— I only have a couple more weeks to finish this grant, and I was so ready to get it finished today. So I’m not really annoyed at the crowds or filling in for people, I’m just annoyed that I’m going to be stressing about it during Thanksgiving. My mom’s going to kill me if I peel the potatoes as poorly as I did last year.”

Keith tilts his head to the side, and Lance continues without him having to voice his question. “I left more of the potato attached to the peel than in the pot. We had like three cups of mashed potatoes when I was done. We practically had to ration them out.” Lance’s voice is mirthful, the way it always turns when he talks about his family.

And Keith loves to listen. Loves that he can communicate with Lance with a simple look. That Lance doesn’t mind his silences or standoffish nature. Shiro’s the only other one that took the time to learn Keith’s silent communication.

“Are you going to Adam’s this year for Thanksgiving?” Lance asks while he wipes his fingers on a towel hanging beside the bucket of fish. Grabbing the pail, he directs Keith back out into the warmth of the aquarium.

“Yeah, they’re good people.”

“Why’d you say it like that?” Lance lifts a single eyebrow.

Keith crosses his arms a little tighter around his body even though they’re the only ones in this employee-only hallway. “What’d you mean?”

“Keith,” Lance sighs as if he already knows the answer and is just waiting for Keith to say it.

“They’re nice,” Keith states a little more firmly this time.

“But?” Lance prompts, tugging on his badge to swipe into a door.

Keith deflates and feels his shoulders relax as he mumbles, “They just don’t really like me. Well, they like me well enough, I guess. Of course they’re welcoming, but — ugh,” Keith groans and drags his hands down his face. He has no idea how to put these tremulous feelings into words.

“It doesn’t feel like home?”

Keith nods slowly and watches as Lance kneels at the edge of the pool. The dark forms of dolphins swim just beneath the surface, like comets in the night sky.

“They don’t really try.” Keith mumbles and accepts the slimy fish from Lance’s hand without thought. “Not like you do.”

“Well, Lancey Lance is limited edition,” Lance chuckles at his own joke, but there’s a seriousness to his voice that doesn’t fade. “I’m sorry though, that is tough. I would invite you to my family’s house — they’re only like three hours away — but I’m not sure you would survive.”

“Yeah?” Keith crouches at Lance’s side, watching the way the dolphins begin to notice them.

Lance’s eyes reflect the water, looking bluer than the sky even though Keith knows their true color. “I think bringing any introvert to my parents’ home is a death sentence.”

“I can hold my own.” Keith meets the challenge in Lance’s eyes.

“Next year then. You can put your money where your mouth is,” Lance jokes, and before Keith can ask if the offer is genuine, Lance pulls a whistle from his pocket and blows it once. Keith can barely catch a sound as a single dolphin breaks the surface and comes toward them. “Alright, now all you have to do is make sure to toss the fish high.”  


꧁❤꧂

  
Keith may have never been to an aquarium before today, but he knows that no other aquarium can compare to this one. Because not every aquarium has Lance.

He wishes that this whole thing would’ve diminished his feelings for Lance, but they seem to burn even brighter — a solar flare in his heart consuming his lungs and using his ribs as kindling. Burying his nose into the collar of his jacket, Keith inhales the scent of salt and the barely-there trace of cloves.

And if he dreams that Lance’s eyes match his once blue one, then no can tell him what an impossibility it is.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Shiro and Keith's relationship in this fic, and I really love how they always support each other -- even if they're struggling to figure out how.


	8. A Fierce Dose of Pragmatism

**Lance✨💙🦈(9:03AM)**   
_On my way to my parent’s house!_

**Keith (9:04AM)**  
_Drive safe_

**Lance✨💙🦈(9:04AM)**   
_Thankfully my sister Veronica has to drive through the city to get home, so she just picked me up_   
_So I can just relax with my feet up on the dash_

**Lance✨💙🦈(9:05AM)**   
_Never mind_   
_Forget about my feet up on the dashboard_   
_Veronica almost killed us on the highway to slap my feet off_   
_Soooo yeah!_

**Keith (9:06AM)**  
_Ouch_  
_At least you’re riding shotgun_  
_I have the backseat, which would be fine in a car that wasn’t the size of a shoe box._

**Lance✨💙🦈(9:07AM)**   
_Oh you’re already on your way to Adam’s parents?_   
_Tell Shiro and Adam I say hi_

**Keith (9:08AM)**  
_Why don’t you text Shiro yourself since you’re such good friends_

**Keith (9:09AM)**  
_I just read that again. I should’ve added an “lol” or “haha” to the end_  
_I was trying to make a joke_  
_Sorry_

**Lance✨💙🦈(9:11AM)**   
_No worries, dude!_   
_I hope you have a good Thanksgiving_   
_Especially after everything we talked about_

**Keith (9:12AM)**  
_We can also forget about all the embarrassing things I’ve said._  
_That works too._

**Lance✨💙🦈(9:14AM)**   
_What?!?! It’s not embarrassing!!_   
_It’s what friends are for (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ_

**Keith (9:17AM)**  
_You’re easy to talk to_

**Lance✨💙🦈(9:18AM)**   
_Really???_   
_Everyone always says that I talk too much and don’t listen enough, but I’m glad you think I’m easy to talk to_

**Keith (9:19AM)**  
_I meant it as an insult, because you keep making me talk about things I never want to say_

**Keith (9:24AM)**  
_I also don’t think you talk too much_  
_I like all of your stories and stuff_

**Lance✨💙🦈(9:29AM)**   
_Thanks, Keith! That really means a lot_

**Keith (9:31AM)**  
_Anytime_

**Lance✨💙🦈(10:07AM)**   
_OKAY KEITH_   
_QUIZ TIME!_   
_What is the best movie of all time???_   


**Keith (10:08AM)**  
_Uh, definitely that Ted Bundy documentary_

**Lance✨💙🦈(10:09AM)**   
_First, fuck you haha_   
_Second, give me a serious answer!!_   
_I need to invalidate Veronica’s opinion, and you’re the only one I trust_

**Keith (10:13AM)**  
_The princess bride._

**Lance✨💙🦈(10:13AM)**   
_You’re joking_   


**Keith (10:14AM)**  
_I knew you were going to make fun of me_

**Lance✨💙🦈 (10:14AM)**   
_NO!_   
_I’m not!!_

**Lance✨💙🦈(10:16AM)**   
_Sorry, it’s just that’s my favorite movie_   
_Veronica kept saying that the Godfather is the best movie of all time, because it’s an oscar winner and it’s a classic and blah blah blah_   
_I think the Godfather is waaaay too long_   
_But the princess bride is a masterpiece!!_

**Keith(10:17AM)**  
_Have you ever read the book?_

**Lance✨💙🦈(10:20AM)**   
_Nooooo_   
_Is it good?_   
_I normally don’t read much. My brain gets a little mush since I have to read a lot of papers for research and stuff_

**Keith (10:25AM)**  
_It’s one of my favorites_  
_The book and the movie were my dad’s favorites too_  
_He used to put it on all the time when I was sick and say “as you wish” to my mom as a joke_

**Lance✨💙🦈(10:26AM)**   
_That’s really sweet, Keith_   
_I’m sorry you thought I was going to make fun of you_

**Lance✨💙🦈(10:27AM)**   
_I know we didn’t get a chance to talk about this at group on Tuesday, but I’m really sorry about your dad_   
_That must have been really hard_

**Keith (10:27AM)**  
_Yeah_  
_It was_

**Lance✨💙🦈 (10:29AM)**   
_Is your mom coming to your big match?_   
_That’s only in a couple weekends right??_   
_I’m so excited!!! You’ll have to link me to some merch, because I don’t want to show up without supporting my favorite wrestler!_   


**Keith (10:33AM)**  
_1) you know it’s not wrestling_  
_2) she’s out of the country on a shoot, so she’s not coming. But she normally watches online so that’s nice._  
_3) I don’t think I have any official merch or fans for that matter_

**Lance✨💙🦈(10:42AM)**   
_Etsy seems to think differently!!_   
_[www.etsy.com/search?red-paladin-tshirt]_   
_Do you think I can get someone to print me a shirt with your face on it???_

**Keith (10:44AM)**  
_I will literally blacklist your name if you wear a t-shirt with my face on it, Lance._

**Lance✨💙🦈(10:45AM)**   
_Fiiiiiiiiine_

**Keith (10:56AM)**  
_Acxa sent me this_  
_[www.MMATitans.com/merch/red-paladin]_  
_You’re welcome_

**Lance✨💙🦈(10:59AM)**   
_Oh my god, Keith_   
_I am going to burn a whole paycheck on this stuff! It’s golden!!!_

**Lance✨💙🦈(12:34PM)**   
_Made it home!_

**Keith (12:38PM)**  
_Glad you made it there safe_  
_The West’s have already asked me why my mom isn’t celebrating with us, and when I said she was on a shoot out of the country they didn’t even say anything_  
_Just changed the topic_  
_Like, I love Adam, but sometimes I question everything_

**Lance✨💙🦈(12:41PM)**   
_That really sucks_   
_I’m sorry you have to go through that_

**Keith (12:42PM)**  
_They mean well_

**Lance✨💙🦈(12:43PM)**   
_They don’t know when to stop asking questions?_   


**Keith (12:44PM)**  
_Yeah_

**Lance✨💙🦈(12:46PM)**   
_When do you head back? Are you stuck there all weekend?_

**Keith (12:47PM)**  
_We head back on Saturday_

**Keith (12:50PM)**  
_Sorry, I don’t want to ruin your day by complaining_  
_How’s your family?_

**Lance✨💙🦈(12:51PM)**   
_I’m always here if you want to talk, Keith. Anytime!!_   
_And my family is good_   
_Is it rude to say that they’re as loud as obnoxious as I remember? haha_   
_Marco brought a new girlfriend so that’s interesting_   


**Keith (12:55PM)**  
_Girlfriend?_

**Lance✨💙🦈(12:57PM)**   
_He’s never been the type to wait around for his soulmate, but it gets awkward with my traditional parents and grandma sometimes_   
_But hey_   
_Guess who’s peeling potatoes again this year!_

**Keith (12:59PM)**  
_Wow, I hope no one likes mashed potatoes_

**Lance✨💙🦈(1:00pm)**   
_Rude! (but not undeserved lol)_

_Lance✨💙🦈(2:45PM)  
 _Pidge just sent me a snapchat of Matt pulling burning rolls from the toaster oven, so I feel really validated now__

**Keith (2:49PM)**  
_Oh, yeah. I got that one too._  
_I thought their dog howling in the background made it even funnier_

**Lance✨💙🦈(2:51PM)**   
_I’m glad to hear that you and Pidge made up, can’t have two of my besties fighting!_

**Keith (2:53PM)**  
_You thought we were fighting?_

**Lance✨💙🦈(2:55PM)**   
_Well, yeah!_   
_I was worried that I wasn’t the only person you were mad at_

**Keith (2:56PM)**  
_And Pidge told you everything?_

**Lance✨💙🦈(2:57PM)**   
_Pidge told Hunk and I everything_   
_But Hunk can get gossip out of anyone!!_   
_I know he looks sweet, but I swear he’s like a siren!!_

**Keith (3:00PM)**  
_It’s okay, Lance_  
_Thanks for worrying, but yeah, Pidge and I are good_  
_So are Shiro and I_  
_Although that was probably Antoni’s fault_

**Keith (3:01PM)**  
_Fuck_  
_Didn’t mean to say that_  
_We can forget that right?_

**Lance✨💙🦈(3:03PM)**   
_No, we’re not going to forget that, Keith_   
_God, I wish I knew how to punch someone so that I could knock his teeth out for saying that to you!!_

**Keith (3:02PM)**  
_It wasn’t like he was the first one to say something like that_

**Lance✨💙🦈(3:04PM)**   
_They’re all wrong!_   
_You’re amazing and kind and passionate, and if they can’t see if, they’re blind_

**Keith (3:07PM)**  
_Thank you, Lance_  
_That really means a lot_

**Lance✨💙🦈(3:08PM)**   
_Literally any time ♡_

**Lance✨💙🦈(4:39PM)**   
_Photo evidence that I was able to make more than two spoonfuls of mashed potatoes!!_   
_[potatoes.jpg]_

**Keith (4:44PM)**  
_Yummy!_  
_Photo evidence that Shiro and I were kicked out of the Wests’ kitchen because we were deemed hazardous to food_  
_[Shiro_with_a_beer.jpg]_  


**Lance✨💙🦈(4:48PM)**   
_Wow, you’re getting off easy!_   
_I wish I could just sit on the couch and have a beer, but instead my hands are still pruney from peeling potatoes_

**Keith (4:50PM)**  
_That’s the first time someone has been jealous of my lack of skill in the kitchen_  
_Makes me think of the brownies for Hunk’s bday potluck_

**Keith (4:51PM)**  
_Never mind._  
_Ignore that._

**Lance✨💙🦈(4:53PM)**   
_I thought you brought that s’mores dip?_

**Lance✨💙🦈(4:54PM)**   
_OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO_

**Keith (4:54PM)**  
_Lance, please_

**Lance✨💙🦈(4:55PM)**   
_I’ll stop after you tell me what happened to the brownies, Keith_

**Keith (4:55PM)**  
_I think I would rather die_

**Lance✨💙🦈(4:57PM)**   
_Do you think Shiro would also rather die than tell your secret?_

**Keith (4:58PM)**  
_Lance, don’t you dare!_

**Lance✨💙🦈(4:58PM)**   
_You have five minutes to tell me yourself or I’ll text Shiro_   
_And I bet he’ll include photo evidence_

**Lance✨💙🦈(5:02PM)**   
_One minute!_   


**Keith (5:03PM)**  
_FINE_  
_I thought the mixer was going to catch my t-shirt and ended up dropping it and the glass bowl the brownie mix was in. It then shattered and cracked eggs and the whole kitchen was a mess._  
_Happy?_

**Lance✨💙🦈(5:05PM)**   
_Extraordinary lol_   
_I think I’m actually dying because that’s hilarious!_

**Keith (5:05PM)**  
_Yeah, yeah_  
_Laugh it up, sharkboy._

**Lance✨💙🦈(5:07PM)**   
_I think I deserved that one haha_

  


꧁❤꧂

  


**Lance✨💙🦈(11:43PM)**   
_Can I call you?_

**Keith (11:45PM)**  
_Of course_  
_Everything okay?_

Keith gives Shiro a small nod as he leaves the lively living room and disappears into the quiet of the guest bedroom. The whole house still smells like turkey and gravy and the champagne bottle that Shiro accidentally sprayed across the kitchen.

He relaxes into the silence of his temporary bedroom as he slumps on the corner of the mattress. His phone is heavy in his hand, the only light in the room.

As soon as Lance’s number pops up on his screen, Keith answers, “Hello?”

“Keith,” Lance seems to sigh into the phone, and if Lance’s brief text message hadn’t been enough of a clue to his mood, Keith would’ve been able to tell by his tone of voice. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“You too.”

A soft silence settles, and in between the rasp of Lance’s breath on the phone, Keith can hear the murmur of muted conversation from Lance’s family. If he closes his eyes and presses the phone tightly against his ear, Keith swears he can almost picture himself beside Lance. All warm light and family conversation rumbling through the walls.

When Lance doesn’t say anything, Keith asks, “Everything alright?”

“Of course! It’s not weird to want to talk to my best buddy on Thanksgiving.” Lance’s voice is playful, the kind of jubilance he uses to cover up whatever else he’s feeling.

“You could’ve texted.”

“We’ve been texting all day,” he grumbles. “You know it’s different on the phone. I actually get to hear you laugh instead of reading LOL.”

And god, Lance is so right. It’s different on the phone.

Keith squeezes his eyes tighter and imagines. Remembers the heat of Lance’s body, so close to his but with a breath of space between them. Or the scent of his cologne. Or the way he always smiles at Keith and makes him feel like the whole world.

It’s different on the phone because Keith can imagine.

And it’s different because it means that Lance wants to talk about something serious.

“Lance, come on. I know you better than this.” Keith flops backwards so he’s half laying on the mattress. His toes trace the seams of the wood floor. The bed is so old, he’s afraid that it’ll just give out beneath him and send him careening to the floor.

But that would probably make Lance laugh, and Keith knows he would give anything to hear that.

In the gentlest whisper, Keith asks, “What’s wrong?”

What he gets in response is an aborted sob. Held back by gritted teeth and curled back lips. Lance breathes out so slowly that Keith counts the seconds. “My grandma is visiting.” The words are a croak.

Lance is vocal about how much he loves his family, so Keith waits for the explanation as dread builds like bubbling bile in his stomach.

“She has alzhimers, so she normally stays in a hospice place close by. But if she’s having a good day, we try to bring her home for the holidays. Sometimes we go to her, but —” Lance clears his throat, and Keith hates how it sounds like every word pains Lance to say. “She just forgets. And I know it’s not her fault, but — but she always asks about my eyes or about Cynthia.”

Keith’s gasp burns as it races down his throat, sizzling in his lungs with the force of it.

He can imagine it all too clearly.

Lance sitting down next to his grandma. She is all wrinkles with a distant look to her eyes. A plump thing with wirey, silver curls and glasses set low on her nose. Keith could recognize her face quicker than his own grandparents, because he’s seen so many pictures of Lance’s family.

Lance would grab her hands and make her focus on his grey gaze. Squeezing her fingers, he would say, “Cynthia’s gone, grandma. She died last year, remember?”

The words would burn in his throat, and the rest of the chaos would still be around them, watching Lance and his grandma and the bitter truth of it all.

“Lance,” Keith breathes, wishing so desperately to be there with him and pull the boy into his arms. To hide his tears like Lance had once done for him.

“It’s just hard,” Lance’s voice warbles on the vowels, sounding like a howl from deep in his chest.

“It doesn’t sound easy.”

Lance whimpers, a thing so close to a sob. “And — and of course my family tries to sympathize, but they don’t get it. And fucking Marco is here with a girl who isn’t even his soulmate! Like he doesn’t realize what he has, and he’s fucking around with someone who isn’t meant for him. And I have _no one_!” Lance’s voice rings through the phone and through Keith’s ears, carrying the pain and the sorrow and the hopelessness.

With every atom of his being, Keith wishes he could’ve stopped the words that left his lips, “You have me.”

Keith wants to curl into the blankets and muffle his scream into the pillow.

Why doesn’t he just tell Lance about all of his lude dreams while he’s at it? Admit all of his torturous feelings that threaten to destroy the fragile rebuilding of their friendship?

His lips part, mouth suddenly dry and cracking on the next words in order to fill the gaping silence between them. “I — I know it’s not the same, but — but I understand.”

The silence only stretches, and Keith can no longer hear the faded edges of conversation and music. His heart beats in his ears, drowning out any other sound. He’s so attuned to Lance’s voice that he almost jumps when he hears that familiar playful tone — the one that Lance uses to divert pain.

“It would be nice if you were here.” But beneath that playfulness is a sincerity that Keith instinctively clings to. “I wish you were here to meet my family. I mean if Marco can bring someone, why can’t I?”

Keith’s mind falters around the implication. “I—”

“Then my mother could dote on you rather than asking me if I’m eating enough or insisting that I need to get more sleep.” Lance chuckles, and it’s a low raspy thing that sends a shiver of pleasure down Keith’s spine. “I mean, one look at you and my mom would practically adopt you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Keith questions, rather than dwelling on the context of Lance bringing him to meet his family — rather than the desperate hope that turns his blood viscous. 

“Keith, dude.” Lance’s tone is genuinely playful, and Keith would kill for this kind of soft banter — the kind that brings them closer together with jokes and good-natured ribbing. “You kind of scream ‘bad boy with a good heart’ or ‘misguided hero.’ If you hadn’t already told me you were as gay as a rainbow flag—”

“I don’t think I used that phrase.”

“— I would worry you’d only come over to woo my sisters.”

Keith can’t deny how much he wants to woo a Serrano, but it’s not one of Lance’s sisters. But there’s no way he can say that to the man of his dreams.

“Very funny,” Keith deadpans while his heart is still thundering in his ears. “Maybe I’ll come next year and teach you how to actually peel potatoes.”

“Yeah? Well then I’ll teach you how to bake brownies without destroying an entire kitchen,” Lance rebuffs with laughter dripping from every syllable.

Whatever darkness had been lingering in Lance’s voice at the beginning of the call had dissipated. Even through the phone, Keith can feel the warm buzz that had surrounded them at Vrepit Sal’s, at Friendsgiving. He wants to lean into it. To curl up in bed with only the sound of Lance’s voice to lull him to sleep.

He parts his lips to say something when he hears a distant voice through the phone. “Lance? Mom is pulling the pies out of the oven, so if you want pumpkin, you better come before the twins get at it.”

“Thanks Veronica,” Lance responds, before turning his attention back to Keith. “Well, dessert’s being served, and it’s always a free-for-all here, so if I’m going to get any, I’ve got to go now.”

“Okay, I won’t keep you,” Keith says even though his heart is longing to keep Lance in any capacity — just the whispered sound of his voice through the phone is enough to stop the full force of Keith’s longing.

Without that, it feels debilitating. An ache that persists in every heartbeat, in every breath, in every glance around the room.

“Yeah, uh,” Lance fumbles before saying softly, “Thanks again, Keith.”

“Anytime.”

“You too. You know, I’m — I’m here for you too.” Lance clears his throat. “Well, I’ll text you later.”

Keith drapes his forearm over his eyes, slumping deeper into the bed. “Sounds good.” Because it does. The promise of pictures and Lance’s funny jokes sounds like salvation in this stifling house.

“And you know not all of our phone calls have to be so serious! You can call me just because Adam’s parents are driving you crazy.” Lance’s voice makes the offer sound too promising, like Keith needed another excuse to indulge these all-consuming feelings. Every interaction seems to only fan the flames higher, threatening to engulf him and turn him into nothing but ash.

Keith hums in response, unable to form words around the twisted lump of emotions in his throat.

“Okay. Bye, Keith.”

“Night Lance,” Keith whispers, and even though he hears the sound of the phone call ending, he can’t bring himself to move.

He doesn’t really want to see Shiro’s reaction to the blush that burns in his cheeks, to the slight tremble of his limbs, and his obviously diminished appetite. So he settles into the darkness of his borrowed room, and allows the conversation to wash over him. Allows himself the luxury of revisiting all of Lance’s offers:

Bringing him home.  
Teaching him how to bake.  
The permission to call at any time, even for something stupid.

Keith drops the phone to the mattress and buries his hands into his hair. With a fierce dose of pragmatism, Keith curtails the mounting hope — the hope that threatens to rupture his heart and shatter his ribs.

A few minutes later, Keith is slumping onto the couch beside Shiro and sipping on another beer. The blush hasn’t left his face, but he’ll just attribute it to alcohol and good company if anyone asks.  


꧁❤꧂

  
“Keith.”

“Hi mom,” he mumbles into the phone, fighting the familiar smile that curls on his lips at the sound of her curt voice.

“Are you wifi calling, because you know I don’t have many minutes overseas —”

“Of course. I just wanted to say happy Thanksgiving. Sorry I didn’t call yesterday, I got preoccupied with...everything.” Keith clears his throat and paces the length of his borrowed bedroom. It feels smaller with each passing hour, but he doesn’t really feel up to the social interaction that lies in wait outside.

“Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Keith.” She’s always been succinct, but in his rose-tinted memories, there was a fondness to her voice that he used to struggle to find when they first reconnected.

But he knows how this goes. It’s been going the same for five years, and in those years, he learned to tell from the little upturn to her tone at the end of her words that she’s happy to hear from him.

“How’s everything? How’s work?” Keith asks.

“It’s going good. National Geographic booked me for another job, so I’ll be staying out here a little longer than planned.” Krolia explains, and Keith hums in response as his fingers twine in the hem of his threadbare pajama shirt.

“I have a match next weekend. A big one. Will you be watching?” Keith’s fingers curl tighter into the fabric of his shirt, because he already knows the answer. They’ve talked about this a million times.

But the purpose of this call, the one thing he wants to ask her, catches in the back of his throat. So instead, he fumbles around topics that have long been established between them.

Krolia hums as if she’s thinking. “Don’t they stream all their matches online now?”

“Yeah, but sometimes it’s payperview.”

“Of course, I’ll be watching then.” Krolia pauses as if she’s waiting for Keith to say something, but his mouth is dry and his tongue is numb. “Now, why did you really call?”

“What do you mean?” he croaks.

“You never call to talk about work, Keith. What’s on your mind?” Her tone is sweet, almost chiding, and Keith’s chest warms at how well she knows him now — how far they’ve come in five years.

“I-I—” He swallows harshly, unsure of how his mom will react. But the feelings have welled to an immeasurable size in his lungs, and he’s afraid if he doesn’t confess, he’ll explode at the next inopportune time. “I just — what if I said I liked someone?”

“Oh?” is all she says, prompting and curious.

“I met him at group therapy. He also lost his soulmate, and I just—” Keith flops back against the bed with a soft grunt, wishing he could bury his face in a pillow without muffling his voice. “I like him. He’s kind.”

There’s a moments pause where Keith can practically hear his mother thinking, compiling information from all of their infrequent calls over the past six months. “Do you only like him because he’s kind?”

There’s a weight to her question that carries so much connotation: Do you only like him because he’s kind to you? Because he treats you like a person and not a monster? Is his kindness genuine?

Keith hates how thick and syrupy his voice sounds as he speaks, “No, he’s so much more than that, Mom. He — he’s helped me through so much. He’s brilliant and passionate and hilarious. I bet he could even make Uncle Antok crack a smile. He’s the most considerate and caring person I’ve ever met.”

“What does Shiro think about him?”

Keith huffs a bitter laugh. “He was actually Shiro’s friend in college.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Shiro convinced Lance to ‘look out for me’ when I finally decided to go to group therapy.” There’s still a bitterness to his voice that he can’t hide, and he knows that his mom hears it.

“I’m guessing that didn’t end well.” Her voice carries a touch of amusement, which Keith knows is directed at his own stubbornness and not his pain at the situation.

He chuckles. “Not necessarily.”

“I imagine that everything is alright because you’re still in love with this boy.”

“Love? I didn’t say anything about love.” Keith’s heart flutters in his chest as he presses the heel of his palm into his grey eye. His hands are sweaty, and his heart rate hasn’t calmed since he dialed his mother’s number.

Her sigh is fond, and Keith wishes that she was here with him right now rather than halfway across the world. All he wants is to fold himself into one of her hugs, to unburden all of his feelings on her.

“You wouldn’t mention this boy to me if you didn’t love him, Keith. I know you’ve realized that by now.”

“Yeah,” Keith breathes, remembering the force of his realization — sitting at the Chinese restaurant next to group and watching Lance struggle to use chopsticks. And Keith found it endearing, Lance talking with his hands and smiling so, so wide.

It should’ve been something Earth shattering. But instead, it felt like the world had finally shifted back into place.

“I just didn’t want you to hate me for loving someone other than my soulmate.” Keith whispers and squeezes his eyes closed, dreading the response from his mother.

Krolia’s voice is the warmest Keith has heard it this entire conversation, “I just don’t want to see you hurt, Keith. You deserve so much love, and you have so much love to give. It would be a disservice, not only to this boy you like but to the world, if you discounted yourself after something that happened in your childhood.”

Keith hums in response, choking back a sob and rubbing his free hand even harder into his eyes to hide the tears.

“I’m sorry I’m not home for another Thanksgiving, but I’ll see you for Christmas, alright?”

“Okay.” Keith mumbles, and he knows it’s obvious in his tightened tone that he’s been crying. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Keith hangs up the phone and scrubs at his stinging eyes. Of course, he had hoped for his mother’s easy acceptance, but to actually receive it — and her encouragement — was overwhelming.

A soft knock on his door has him stumbling to look presentable. He’s brushing the last of his tears from his cheeks and sitting up straight when he responds, “Yeah?”

Thankfully rather than stumbling in on Keith’s moment of weakness, Shiro just speaks through the door, “Keith, are you still up for shopping? Adam and I are ready when you are.”

“Coming,” Keith croaks and hopes that Shiro doesn’t notice the redness to his eyes and the permanent smile on his lips.  
  



	9. A Carcass, Half-Devoured

It would feel like any other day, waking to a series of late-night text messages from Lance, if it wasn’t for the anticipation singing in Keith’s blood. Normally Keith struggled to wake up, snoozing his alarm and skirting the line of Acxa’s punishment for being late.

But today, he woke up buzzing.

**Lance✨💙🦈(12:03AM)**  
_Dude, today is the day!_  
_Are you excited or what?_

**Lance✨💙🦈(12:46AM)**  
_Oh! I forgot to show you what came in the mail last week!_  
_[red-paladin-merch.jpg]_  
_I’m going to be the most stylish fan you have!_

**Lance✨💙🦈(12:52AM)**  
_This isn’t like football games right?_  
_I don’t need to paint my face or be drunk to tolerate the fans?_  
_Right???_

**Lance✨💙🦈(1:20AM)**  
_I was going to wish you good luck, but I doubt you’ll need it!!_  
_You’re going to kick ass today!!_

**Keith (6:30AM)**  
_Thanks Lance <3_

The morning passes in a series of meetings and car rides with Acxa constantly talking at his side, either to him or the personnel overseeing the match. Her expression is fierce as she types on her phone. Keith watches her out of the corner of his eyes as he steps up on the scale for his pre-match weigh-in.

But he barely registers the girl writing down his weight and asking him to step off. He barely registers anything — mind completely focused on what lays ahead.

He falls into the comforting rhythm of his warm-ups, following Acxa’s instructions without ever really hearing them. His body is moving well today, all his joints feel oiled and his muscles are coiled springs. The moment his feet touch the mat, his entire focus has shifted to Rampage.

Rampage is large with broad shoulders and defined glory muscles that glisten with sweat as he engages the crowd. Compared to Keith’s compact weight, he looks so much smaller in comparison. But Rampage has always been a heavy hitter, lumbersome as much as a professional MMA fighter could be.

Keith grinds his teeth against his mouthguard and takes a fighting stance. Rampage turns from the crowd with eyes like amber and a bloodthirsty smile.

The referee stands between them, and in a moment’s notice, the fight begins.  


꧁❤꧂

  
  


꧁❤꧂

  
Keith’s body is still singing from the match. Each of his muscles are coiled tight and are ready to strike at a moment’s notice. He can’t hear the roar of the crowd or see the way they scream and claw their hands through the rails at a chance to touch him. He can’t feel the familiar twinge in his knee when he pushes himself too far, or the swelling of his bottom lip.

Elation is the only thing that fills him.

Victory.

His lip stings as a smile crawls up his features. He pauses outside the door he entered through — all showmanship and anxiety — at the top of the ramp with lights illuminating the sweat clinging to his skin. Tipping his head back, he raises one hand in the air and the roar of the crowd deafens any other thought.

Acxa’s hand is cold against his heated skin, pushing him through the doors and into quiet. The only thing he can hear is the rush of his heart in his ears.

The remnants of adrenaline still thrum through his veins as he slumps on the bench of the changing room. His body is slick with sweat and his mouth tastes like blood and plastic. Acxa stands beside him, thrusting a water bottle into his palms the second he shucks off his gloves. The wrappings around his knuckles make it difficult to grab the bottle, but he moans the second the cool water fills his mouth.

“Good job out there.” Acxa’s eyes are calculating as she analyzes every inch of Keith, looking for injuries he either doesn’t or won’t report. “Rampage wasn’t an easy opponent, and you’ve finally secured a seat in the big leagues. We’ll have to—”

“Keith!” Lance’s voice cuts off Acxa, and Keith’s gaze shoots up to see his friend bursting through the training room doors with a wide smile on his features. His cheeks are flushed with excitement as he barrels forward. He’s wearing one of those hideous shirts from the website Keith sent him. But somehow Lance makes anything look good.

“You were incredible out there!” Lance is already talking, sitting next to Keith and stradling the bench to mirror Keith’s position. Their knees are pressed together as he reaches forward and grabs Keith’s free hand. Tanned fingers trace the lines of the protective wrap to find the end. Carefully untwining it, Lance continues to speak, “I’ve never really been into MMA or wrestling, but wow, that was something else. In the third round, I got so worried for you. Rampage put you in that, uh, lock—”

“Submission,” Keith offers, enchanted by the gentle caress of Lance’s fingertips and the enthusiasm that radiates from him like sunshine.

“Yeah, submission, but you didn’t even hesitate to reverse it. It was — do all of your matches go like that?” Lance pulls the last of the wrap from Keith’s hands. Looking up, Keith meets Lance’s gaze for the first time since he sat so close. Their knees are pressed together, and Keith has never felt more naked.

He’s sitting here, covered in a thin layer of sweat and a pair of tight shorts.

And Lance looks radiant. His hair is casually tosselled, like he’d run his fingers through it during the difficult parts of Keith’s match. His skin is flushed and his eyes are brilliant, matching his wide smile. And Keith wants to hate the shirt, because it’s literally a picture of him shirtless holding up an award with the words “Keith Kogane, Red Paladin” emblazoned on it. But he really can’t — can’t even fight the smile at how ridiculous this boy before him is.

Because Keith can’t stop getting lost in Lance’s eyes, Acxa answers Lance’s question, “This was a good performance. Typically he has to tap out a couple times.” She’s about to say more when her phone blares from her pocket. “Sorry, I need to take this. Lance, if Keith starts looking like he’s dizzy, you call me or get medical in here immediately. He took a couple good punches to the head, and he’s the type that’ll try to just push through a concussion.”

With that, Acxa strides out the same door Lance had just entered.

Lance leans a little closer to Keith, tilting his head to the side and examining him. “Do you feel dizzy?”

Keith almost says yes, because he feels dizzy from the warmth of Lance’s fingers tracing patterns along his hands. Dizzy with the longing to press against Lance’s neck and breathe in the scent of his cologne. Dizzy with desire.

“I’m fine, Lance. Acxa just likes to worry,” Keith shrugs his shoulders and sets his water bottle on the bench between his legs so he can unwrap his other hand. “I’m her investment after all.”

“I can understand why she’d worry.” Lance’s voice is quiet, and Keith can’t stop himself from gazing up to meet Lance’s eyes. He’s closer than before, pushing into Keith’s space. And all Keith wants to do is stitch up the distance between them until they’re pressed chest to chest. “You were amazing out there,” Lance breathes.

Keith swears the match went so well because he could feel the weight of Lance’s grey eyes. The urge to impress Lance had burned within him the second he caught his gaze from the crowd. He’d lost it seconds later, but Lance was there — there for Keith.

And Keith had thrived.

“You sure you’re doing okay, Red Paladin? You keep zoning out on me,” Lance chuckles, but there’s a weight to it that Keith can’t decipher.

Lance raises his hand, and it pauses in the air just before Keith’s face. With tentative fingers, he brushes a loose strand of hair behind Keith’s ear. His fingers burn like the sun against Keith’s skin. And all he wants to do is bask in the heat.

“Lance,” Keith whispers, and it sounds like a confession.

Lance hums, fingers lingering on the back of Keith’s neck, twining with the sweaty hair that has fallen out of his ponytail.

The same buzz surrounds them — the one from their first night at Vrepit Sal’s or Friendsgiving — the one that Keith wants to languish in. And Keith is drunk on Lance. On the way Lance tells stories, hands spinning images out of thin air and voice always dripping with excitement. On the way Lance supports all of his friends, texting or calling at all times of the day and listening with such rapt attention every time they speak. On the way Lance embodies joy and light even while his eyes are stained grey.

Keith is in love with a boy he was never destined to be with.

Keith is so in love it aches. More than his split lip or his pulsing knee or when Rampage knocked the air out of him. And Keith wants.

His bare hands drop to Lance’s thighs, warm beneath his quickly cooling palms. He feels the muscles tense beneath his touch. Lance’s soft gasp is almost lost beneath the thunder of Keith’s heartbeat.

All of the adrenaline from the match hasn’t faded.

Maybe that’s why Keith is able to be so brave, to finally confront the overwhelming feelings within him. He presses forward, giving Lance enough time to pull away, before kissing him.

Kissing Lance puts all of his dreams to shame. His lips are sweet and pliant, tasting like the kettle corn the vendors sell up and down the aisles.

Lance’s fingers twine deeper into Keith’s hair, pulling his head to the side and licking along the seam of Keith’s lips — asking for permission. And Keith gives Lance everything. He pushes to his knees, ignoring the spike of pain that jolts up his femur and practically crawls into Lance’s lap. He doesn’t care how sweaty or inexperienced he is when he’s pressed against Lance’s chest, dragging his fingers against the column of Lance’s neck. A small moan escapes the back of his throat when Lance gently nips at his bottom lip.

Pulling back just enough to inhale, their foreheads press together as their breathing evens out. Keith’s eyes are still closed, squeezed so tightly that he can only focus on the scent of Lance’s cologne or the way he feels Lance’s stuttered breaths beneath his palms.

“Lance,” Keith exhales, a sigh and an acquiescence. Because if he thought his dreams were tempting, knowing how Lance kisses — with passion and experience and so much fervor — now, Keith is insatiable.

Lance’s hand unwinds from Keith’s hair and lands heavily on his elbow. With little force, Lance pushes Keith’s hands off and separates them.

Keith doesn’t want to open his eyes, doesn’t want to leave the warmth of Lance’s embrace. Because even if Lance kissed him back, it might not mean anything. Grey eyes are convenient that way. 

Taking a steadying breath, Keith slowly opens his eyes.

The first thing he sees are Lance’s kiss-red lips, the bottom one pinched between his teeth. Next is the slight tremble to Lance’s chin and the glossiness to his grey eyes. In every plane of Lance’s face, Keith can only see agony.

“I’m sorry,” Lance shakes his head, tipping his head back as if to stop tears. “I— I didn’t— this isn’t what I wanted. I already had my soulmate — I’m not supposed to fall in love again. I areadly had my chance, and I fucking lost it.”

Through the whirlwind of Lance’s words, Keith can only focus on one: again.

He presses forward, and because Lance is sitting at the end of the bench, there is nowhere for him to go. Keith’s hand trembles as he reaches out, pressing his palm against Lance’s cheek. With the gentle sweep of his thumb, he brushes Lance’s tears away. “Does losing a soulmate mean you can never be happy again?”

“Keith,” Lance whimpers, pressing into Keith’s palm like he’s carrying the weight of the world. He tips his chin down and squeezes his eyes closed, as if he trusts Keith to catch all of his tears before they fall.

And Keith would. He would do absolutely anything for this boy.

“I wanted what my soulmate promised: love and acceptance, all unconditionally.” Keith says softly as he cups Lance’s other cheek with his free hand, holding his entire world in his palms. But Lance doesn’t open his eyes, because if Keith never sees the faded hue of Lance’s eyes, it’ll almost be like they’re soulmates. “Do you know what they gave me instead? They gave me a life full of grief and discrimination, and I’m fucking sick of it. So I’m going to take what I want for once in my life.” He can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

This is the first time in his life he’s ever chosen who he wants to be with. The first time he only desires one person’s acceptance.

Lance’s eyes open, bloodshot and utterly beautiful. Like elegant mountain peaks or pebbles on a rocky shore or the sky just before a storm. He’s ethereal.

Reaching up, Lance presses his palms against the backs of Keith’s hands. There’s a second when they both relish in the touch, before Lance curls his fingers around Keith’s and pulls them from his cheeks.

Keith isn’t sure if the tremble of his fingers is from Lance or himself.

“So what do you want now?” Lance’s question is a whisper, a tentative, heart-wrenching thing.

“You,” Keith sighs like it’s his first breath of fresh air. Grasping Lance’s hands tighter, Keith pushes onward, “I don’t care if I was supposed to have someone else, you’re the only person I’ve ever wanted.”

Lance flinches away at that statement, yanking his hands back and quickly standing up. Turning his back on Keith, his shoulders curl into himself like he’s on the verge of imploding — like a collapsing star.

“God, Lance.” Keith’s words are thick, catching on unshed tears in his throat, “Ever since that first night at Vrepit Sal’s, I knew you were important to me, and all I wanted to do was spend more time with you.”

“Keith—”

“You’re it for me, Lance. Don’t you understand? I don’t even know my soulmate’s name.” Keith rises to his feet before he can even think about what he’s doing. “Whenever I close my eyes and picture him, I see you.”

“Keith—”

Keith stands before him now, desperate to wrap Lance in his arms, to change the colors of their eyes. “In every way that matters, you’re my soulmate, Lance.” 

But Lance rears back at Keith’s statement, and the only word that Keith can use to describe Lance’s expression is horrified.

“ _I’m not anything to you!_ ” Lance snarls like a feral animal more than a man. “I’m not even your friend, right? You made that perfectly clear.”

“Seriously, Lance?” Keith’s words are firm, a deadly thing he’d developed since his eye turned. Adrenaline still thrums in his blood, pounding with the increased rhythm of his heart. “I thought that was all resolved. It was weeks ago, and you know that’s not what I —”

“Look me in the eyes, Keith, and tell me that you don’t _see_ any issue with us being _soulmates_?” The words are a low growl, something so unfamiliar that if Keith wasn’t looking at Lance, he wouldn’t recognize his voice.

But Keith does as Lance instructed. He meets Lance’s gaze, studies the glitter in those mercury-colored depths, the intense silver that has always washed out the brilliant tan of his skin. Grey like dust and ashes, like faded photographs and old movies, like storm clouds and mountainous cliffs. Keith has never found him more beautiful.

Lance nods decisively like Keith’s silence was all the confirmation he needed.

“I knew you’d finally understand.” Voice cold and detached like what Keith imagined those early days of group must have been like for him. “We lost our soulmates. We lost our chances.” Lance shoves his hands into his pockets and tucks his chin, like he can’t bear to look Keith in the eyes as he leaves.

“I don’t see anything wrong with us being soulmates,” Keith states with every bit of confidence he feels, from his victory over Rampage just minutes ago, from the kiss that still tingles against his lips. “I won’t let you throw away what we have.”

Lance sighs like he’s fighting with a petulant child who won’t take no for an answer. Tilting his head back and to the side, he meets Keith’s eyes with the coldest gaze he’s ever seen. “We don’t _have_ anything, Keith. When are you going to understand that?”

“But you love me.” And it sounds more like a statement than the question it is.

“So?” Lance rips his hands out of his pockets to motion at something Keith can’t see. He spins a vicious story with the quick movements of his hands. “I love you so much that I’d travel the entire world just to stay by your side. I love you so much that I would pretend to just be your friend in public so that I could be with you in private. I love you so much that I’d give up everything I have right now to be with you!”

“Then what’s the problem?!”

“We’re not supposed to be together,” Lance says like it’s the simplest fact in the world. Like a law of nature or the theory of gravity.

Keith curls his fists at his sides. “Says who?”

“Keith—”

“Some mystical destiny? The gods? Who dictates our future?” Each word is more of a snarl, something roaring in his chest alongside his aching heart. He’s a wounded creature that is thrashing in pain and bravado, because he doesn’t dare let Lance see how deep his words cut.

“I can’t do this. I can’t.” Lance shakes his head and steps around Keith, heading for the door he burst through just minutes ago.

Without thinking, Keith cuts him off and grabs ahold of his wrist. “Wait, Lance. Please don’t go.” His fingers tighten in their grip, fighting to keep Lance here — fighting for him to understand that nothing but them matters — fighting to save the fragile, ethereal thing that has been growing between them. “Can’t we forget about all this? I — I don’t think I can lose you.”

Each word scrapes against his throat.

Because he would rather die than lose Lance, even if it meant he had to kill off his love every day. He already lost Lance once, walked for miles in the bitter cold to deal with the fact that maybe Lance was never his friend. But they overcame that.

Can’t they overcome anything?

Keith reaches his free hand forward, and he’s not sure what he wants. To slap Lance? To brush away the remnants of tears on his cheeks? To pull him in for one last kiss?

Instead, he curls his fingers into the front of Lance’s shirt, wrinkling his own printed face. Shaking Lance slightly, Keith finally sees those mercury eyes. “I love you,” Keith says like a confession, like a plea, like a prayer.

“And I loved Cynthia.” Lance’s voice is stoic, everything about him is crafted from marble — beautiful but cold. “I met my soulmate and had my happily ever after. And just because you never met your soulmate doesn’t mean you can take all this away from me.”

It’s a quiet kind of shatter that fractures Keith’s heart, that splinters his lungs, that strips him bare. Like all of his organs have been plucked from his abdomen and placed in steel bowls. He’s a carcass, half-devoured.

His hand falls from Lance’s wrist and untwines from his shirt, and it’s like watching a mannequin with its strings cut. Falling to the ground in a tumble of wooden limbs. For as weightless as he feels, his bones are filling with cement, rooting him to the ground.

He almost thinks the blurriness of his vision is a potential concussion, lightheadedness coming to steal his consciousness. But when he blinks woodenly, a tear falls and clears his sight.

Why does it hurt so much more that it was Lance who tore through his chest and spilled his blood? Not the opponent in the ring that had left Keith with a split lip and bruised ribs. Not the bullies that pushed and jeered and called him ‘diseased.’ Not the boys who smiled seductively and called his soullessness desirable.

But Lance — the boy who’d held him in a bathtub, who called in the middle of the night, who wrapped an arm around the back of his chair to steady him during group, who smiled brightly and _understood_ — had done just what they all had done before.

But this time, Keith had willingly given his heart, only to see it abandoned.

Lance can’t meet his eyes. Shoulders hunched and gaze turned away like he can’t bear to see Keith’s expression. “I’m sorry,” Lance breathes like his last whisper of air when he’s sinking fathoms below.

Keith isn’t sure that Rampage didn’t punch through his ribs and tear his heart from his chest. His ribcage feels hollow as he watches Lance’s retreating figure push open the door and get swallowed by the crowd now swarming his locker room. The taste of Lance lingers on his lips like the searing heat of spice that won’t disappear.

A camera flashes in his face and the murmur of reporters shouting questions are suddenly too loud. Like his once rapidly beating heart in the ring. Like the moan he pulled from the back of Lance’s throat.

He’s a champion.

He’s finally gained the recognition that he’s desired since he was a rookie.

But it feels hollow, because he also lost tonight. A loss worth so much more than another title under his belt. And Keith doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to win Lance back. He doesn’t even know if it’s something he should fight for.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene rips my heart out, because _they're in looooooove_!!
> 
> A wonderful reminder that all of the art for this Big Bang was done by the amazing Elle Gee!! (≧◡≦) ♡ Please check her out and give her all the love she deserves on her [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/ellegee2018/?hl=en), [twitter](https://twitter.com/ellegee2018), and [tumblr](https://ellegee2018.tumblr.com/)!!


	10. A Hateful Kind of Drink

Keith curls into himself on the floor of the locker room shower. His shorts wetly cling to his legs as he presses into the corner. The tiles are bitterly cold against his bare skin, but the feeling is muted. His phone bites into his ear, shielded from the droplets by his hair, but the ends are slowly dampening and plastering to his face. But he can’t give a fuck about a few hundred dollars right now — not when he’s just won thousands, not when his heart is petrifying in his chest.

“Mom,” he breathes, a withered, wrecked thing that doesn’t sound remotely like himself. It’s weak, and Keith Kogane is anything but weak.

“Keith, congratulations!” Her voice is bubbly, all excitement and pride. This fight, finally breaking into the big leagues, was something they’d talked about ad nauseam. She pauses like she’s waiting for him to respond, to relay all of his favorite parts of the match — the seconds where he was against the ropes and still determined to win.

But he can’t relish in his victory with the taste of Lance lingering on his lips. The sweetness of kettle corn souring with each passing minute.

“Wait, what’s that noise?” she asks about the roaring shower and the soft wheeze of his breath.

“Mom?” He curls tighter in on himself and pulls away from the warmth of the water.

Her tone immediately shifts to something he remembers — like the day when he called her from the nurses’ office or when he’d left the gate open and their dog ran away; it’s all determination and calculation, like she’s running a million problem-solving algorithms in her mind. “What’s going on? Are you alright?”

“He—he—”

But Keith can’t form words, can’t think beyond the gaping whole in his chest. An imploding supernova that drags in every organ. His ribs are trembling and his lungs fight for every breath. But there’s no oxygen in his blood, and he’s suffocating.

“Can you put Shiro or Acxa on the line, honey? I can’t understand you?”

“He left.” Keith snaps with the fracturing of his ribs, the aches and bruises from the fight suddenly blazing, as if his mind is desperate to compartmentalize his emotional pain into something physical. He understands the physical. The way a fist can knock the wind from his chest or the way a shoulder dislocates under a submission. But this — how can something so intangible be so visceral? “We kissed and — and he just left. I—I don’t know what to do,” he sobs, curling deeper into himself, into the coldest corner of the steaming shower.

“Oh honey,” his mom breathes and listens to his sobs over the rush of water. “Where are you? I’ll make sure Shiro comes to—”

“What am I supposed to do now?” Keith clutches at his chest as if that might hold together the widening chasm birthed between his ribs. “I—I love him, but he doesn’t want me.”

His mom shushes him, and it feels like an eternity later that Shiro is bursting into the locker room showers. Water drips from his bangs as he shuts off the shower and kneels before Keith. And just like a child, Keith crawls into his arms and wishes that Shiro could make all the pain go away like a bad dream.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Sunday passes in a blur. A series of disjointed motions that Keith can hardly remember.

He’s pretty sure that he ate, because Shiro wouldn’t let him fall backwards. The fear is so obvious in his eyes. They both know that if Keith found a bottle in his hand, he would’ve drank the whole thing without a second thought. Because habits like that don’t break easily, and all Keith wants now is a crutch and a reason to forget.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Monday.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Tuesday.

What is the point in going to group?

How can Keith talk about a soulmate he’s never known — never loved — when Lance sits right beside him? With Lance embodying everything Keith has ever wanted? With Lance being Keith’s first and only love?

How can he talk about the decade-old death of his soulmate when Lance’s loss is still raw and insurmountable?

So he misses group and doesn’t feel guilty. Not even when Shiro comes home with an armful of Chinese food. Not even when it all tastes like ash and disappointment. Not even when he can hear Shiro and Adam’s murmured conversation through the walls.

Not even when he receives a text from Pidge.

**Pidge (10:30PM)**   
_You okay?_

Not even when he doesn’t answer.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Wednesday morning is a series of missed calls from Acxa and a short email about a new recipe for a protein shake. Shiro’s fingerprints are all over Acxa’s short and calm demeanour in the email. But Keith can’t even be upset.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Thursday is a Netflix day.

When Adam comes home, he settles on the couch next to Keith and pulls out a folder of ungraded quizzes. Keith can feel himself smiling every so often at Adam’s mumbled comments.

“Grading these quizzes makes me question if I’m actually a good teacher,” Adam grumbles with his eyes peering over the tops of his glasses like he’s gauging Keith’s reaction. “Want to help me grade a couple so I’m not drowning in misery?”

Keith shrugs his shoulders, not really expecting Adam to push five quizzes and a blue pen into his hands. He twirls the writing utensil between his fingers as he contemplates the soothing color (like an eye long turned grey, like the ocean, like love at first sight).

“Yeah, we’re not allowed to use red pens anymore. Some study came out saying—” but Keith tunes Adam out and glances between the answer key and the quizzes.

There's a little bit of a vindictive cheer with each wrong answer and slash through the questions. But when Keith hands the papers back to Adam, he raises his eyebrows and chokes. Keith isn’t handed anymore quizzes to grade.  


꧁❤꧂

  
By Friday, it’s obvious that Shiro and Adam are doing whatever they can to “fix” Keith’s broken heart.

But maybe he doesn’t want to be fixed.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Saturday morning, Keith wakes to the sound of Shiro’s voice and the floor groaning from his pacing.

Keith has been fatigued and unable to sleep for a week. With each passing restless night, he feels like his mind is fading a little more. Maybe it’s because he’s willfully been ignoring his thoughts, or maybe it’s the lack of sleep.

“Hey Hunk, it’s Shiro.” His brother’s voice is only slightly muffled through the door as he paces the living room. It’s obvious that he thinks Keith’s is still sleeping. Or maybe he wants Keith to overhear. Apparently Shiro loves when his plans seem clandestine. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve been trying to reach Lance, but he hasn’t been picking up his phone.”

There’s a pregnant pause, both in Shiro’s talking and the sound of his rhythmic footsteps.

With a rough sigh that borders on irritation, Shiro continues, “Why? Because Keith is devastated and he won’t tell us anything. The only thing I know is that Acxa stepped out of the room for ten minutes and came back to see Keith practically catatonic. She thought he had a serious concussion, but the medical team checked him out and said he’s alright. So, yeah, that’s why I’ve been trying to reach Lance.”

Keith debates burying his head in his pillow or willingly getting out of bed without help for the first time in a week. But even the effort to close the pillow over his ears is too much. If he moves too quickly, Keith’s sure he’ll suffocate.

“What do you mean, he won’t tell you?” There’s an intitled indignance to Shiro’s voice that digs its way under Keith’s skin. “No, it’s not the same as Keith. Keith barely talks about anything, and Lance wouldn’t know brevity if it punched him in the face.”

Keith moves before he feels the soreness of lying still for so long singing through his muscles. He’s pulling open the door and leaning on the frame before he can shudder a breath. Shiro pauses in the middle of the living room, the prosthetic hand pressing the phone to his ear while the other is buried knuckle-deep in his hair.

“Shiro,” Keith says with a voice like gravel, “please stop. Lance didn’t do anything wrong, okay? So lay off.”

He slams his bedroom door shut before Shiro can say another word.

Stumbling through his room and the bathroom, he showers and readies himself for the day. It’s refreshing to feel so clean after languishing in his pajamas for days. The cologne from the back of his shelf smells weird, and it’s so pungent it makes his eyes water. But at least while he’s constantly breathing in the scent of wood smoke and pine, he won’t remember cloves and sea salt.

Shiro’s still standing in the living room, looking like a ship lost at sea, when Keith marches from his bedroom.

“Keith—”

“I’m going out,” Keith grumbles and brushes past Shiro without another word.

As he dons his helmet, Keith swears he hears the front door open behind him. But he revs the engine and races down the street before Shiro can yell after him.

He falls into the ruthless grace of the road. The way turns sing in his blood, and his knees almost scrape the ground. How it feels to slide through traffic like a current through water, blasting through lights at the last minute and relishing in the small victories.

It’s like every ride before group — trying to fill the caverness space within him, a world tinted grey from a soulmate he never met.

In the back of his mind, there’s the quiet voice of warning.

Keith ignores it and opens the throttle, barreling down the road with a determination to forget all that haunts him.  


꧁❤꧂

  
He hates that he finds himself here. Especially after all this time.

Keith shoves his helmet into the bike’s carrier and marches into the bar like he’s familiar with the place (he’s revisited it a million times in his memories).

Vrepit Sal’s looks even more dingy than it did that first night, with peeling mortar and stained floors. But it holds much more than a single drunken night with a friend from group therapy. It’s the first night he started falling in love.

He sinks into one of the bar stools, ignoring how it tilts to one side with his weight.

Resting his chin on his interlaced fingers, Keith watches the single bartender finish polishing a glass before wandering over. The only other patrons are seated at the far end of the bar, enjoying bubbling pints of beer. It’s quiet in here over the hum of music Keith hasn’t heard before.

It’s not the same bartender from that night, but he gives Keith a warm smile anyway. “What can I get you?”

“Whiskey on the rocks, please.” Even though he’s never been the type for straight hard liquor. He kind of wants something that burns all the way down. Nothing that reminds him of that pleasant buzz with Lance.

A hateful kind of drink.

“Haven’t seen you around here before,” the bartender comments as he picks a handle of whiskey from the shelf behind him. It’s a statement, not a question, but it’s one that bears answering.

“I’ve only been here once.”

The bartender hums as he places one large ice cube in a glass. The whiskey melts the sharp corners as he pours a generous helping over the ice. “You came with Lance, right?”

Keith’s eyes jolt up to meet the bartender’s gentle gaze. The question must be obvious in his expression, because the man answers without Keith having to ask, “Kolivan and Hunk wouldn’t stop going on about it. I’m Thace by the way. It’s nice to meet you, Keith.”

Keith shakes Thace’s hand and grabs his drink with the other. He takes a gulp and presses the glass to his sternum afterward as if that could quell the following burn. Parting his lips, Keith sighs instead of pinning down one of the millions of questions in his head. He touches the cold rim of the cup to his lips and chugs half of the amber liquid.

He can’t fight his grimace as he slams the half-full glass to the bar.

Meeting Thace’s eyes, Keith asks, “So what did they say about me?”

He can only imagine the words, the ones that have followed him for his entire life. Because this soullness was a disease, and he was sure people thought he infected Lance.

“Hunk talked about how he hadn’t seen Lance this happy since Cynthia, and Kolivan was relieved that Lance was actually coming back on a regular basis.” Thace doesn’t make eye contact as he’s speaking, fiddling with the stack of napkins and rearranging the cup of straws. “They seemed to attribute all of that to you.”

Keith scoffs and takes another large sip of his whiskey.

Thace nods solemnly before walking to the other side of the bar and making quiet conversation with the patrons.

It’s a Saturday afternoon, so he didn’t expect the bar to be crowded, but he also didn’t expect to feel more lonely here than in his own bedroom. He twirls the glass and watches his reflection in the amber liquid. Each sip burns in a way that echoes in his blood like the sharp taste of metal.

When he finishes with the drink and feels no more content with himself, he waves Thace over.

“Can I get another?” Keith twirls the bottom of the glass on the bar, watching the rings of condensation make patterns on the polished wood.

“Sure, but I can also make you something you might actually enjoy,” Thace counters with a soft smile.

Keith can’t look him in the eye and see two distinct colors like lavender and red wine. So he nods. He fixes his gaze on Thace’s hands, watching him pour a shot of whiskey and shake in some bitters. With the twist of an orange and a quick stir, he’s pushing the drink over to Keith.

“An old fashioned,” Thace comments and waits for Keith’s reaction.

It burns satisfyingly down his throat, and it’s bitter. It’s nothing like beer or those fruity drinks that Lance likes. But that makes it better.

“It’s good,” Keith mumbles.

Thace hums in response, not moving from his position. Instead he plucks the dish towel from over his shoulder and begins polishing some glasses beneath the bar. He’s methodical in his motions, and Keith watches with rapt fashionation.

It’s a comforting kind of companionship. No need for conversation or the concerned glances that he receives around the apartment.

The door swings open, letting in a gust of cold air and the sound of traffic. Thace smiles at the door and says, “Hey Hunk. Early start to your shift today.”

Keith can’t fight the sudden stiffness to his shoulders or the jerky motion of his neck as he glances at the door. Hunk is smiling wide, so warm and bright in the murky lights of the bar. He’s unwinding his scarf and shucking off his jacket as he carefully navigates the worst of the stains without looking.

“Yeah, it’s movie night tonight, so I’m heading out a little early.” Hunk’s words are so gentle, and the tone somehow continues when he addresses Keith. “How’re you doing, Keith? I didn’t know you were a new regular here.” There’s a smile in each word, a touch of humor that would have Keith returning a grin if the weight of Lance’s rejection didn’t settle so heavily on his chest.

Keith shrugs with one shoulder and watches out of the corner of his eye as Hunk leans against the bar beside him. “Not really. Just needed a drink today.”

“Yeah, Shiro—”

“Can we not talk about my brother? I get enough from him as it is,” Keith groans and tips the last of his drink into his mouth. The gulp burns the entire length of his throat, and Keith wishes that every sip would get easier. But it hasn’t. “What happened between Lance and me isn’t something everyone else should worry about.”

Hunk settles a warm hand on Keith’s shoulder, the heat so startling from the temperature outside. “Of course, man. How about I bring you some fries on the house?”

“You don’t have—”

“It’ll take like fifteen minutes since I have to heat up the oil, but they’ll be out as soon as possible.” Hunk smiles and gives Thace a nod before disappearing into the kitchen.

Keith asks for another drink from Thace and hides his smile behind a sharp nod. He hadn’t thought Hunk would still act like his friend. It was obvious that he was Lance’s friend first, and Keith thought that loyalties would divide after a fight like this. He would be left exactly where he started.

Alone.

The fries are salted to perfection, and Keith talks to Hunk over the basket of them. It’s comforting to eat with a friend. It makes him think of Lance and everything that has happened in the past six months.

Keith leaves a large tip and says goodbye to Thace and Hunk without them knowing it was a farewell.

He’s always been a little prepared to lose everything he’d gained. He just didn’t think it would hurt so much.  


꧁❤꧂

  
He doesn’t answer Pidge and Hunk’s texts, and he almost expects them to hunt him down like the night after Friendsgiving. But they seem to be giving him space. Or they’ve chosen their side in all of this.

He never receives a message or a call from Lance, and somehow that hurts the most.  


꧁❤꧂

  
The startling thing about loss is that life still goes on.

So Keith goes back to training, enjoying the way his muscles ache with each successful practice. Under Acxa’s careful regimen, Keith stays even later, pushes himself harder, and works towards something he can’t even visualize (Allura would call it an escape mechanism, but Keith hasn’t been going to group so she can’t call it anything).

The world continues to turn, and Keith Kogane learns to smile again. He leans into his brother’s company, and casually meets Adam’s eye across the table when he brings up getting his own apartment. There’s shock and subtle gratefulness there as Keith presses on about wedding details and Shiro’s abhorrent planning abilities.

Keith has lived through many losses. Each one settles differently, like silt at the bottom of his ventricles. Some were heavier and faster to settle while others clogged his valves and hampered his heart for years.

He even posts on his Red Paladin social media. It’s a shot that Acxa had taken during one of his training exercises, a blurry punch right at the camera. His eyes appear to be the only thing completely in focus.

He uses the hashtag #GreyEyePride.

Shiro smiles so warmly at him, like all of his fears about Lance were both realized and assuaged.

But in the depths of the night when the remnants of Lance’s kiss and the weight of his intangible hands on Keith’s body startle him awake, Keith buries himself into his blankets and allows himself to cry.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Christmas comes and goes, and Keith sinks into his mother’s hug like it’s the best present. They visit Adam’s family and sit in the living room with Krolia while the Wests prepare the lavish dinner. With a raised beer and a muffled chuckle, Keith thinks about sending a picture to Lance — wants to ask if he’s peeling potatoes for Christmas dinner or if they prepare something else? Wants to ask if he’s gotten another shark onesie or other shark related things? Wants to know if there are any new inside jokes or if his grandmother is visiting again?

Instead, Keith finishes his beer and sneaks past the Wests and into the kitchen to grab another one.

He forces himself to focus on the moment, rather than the gift that gathers dust in the back of his closet. It had been a spontaneous purchase on Black Friday. Normally, he just walks around with Shiro and Adam and comments on the crazy lines of people and the poor retail workers.

Now he wonders if he’ll ever give it to Lance. Maybe it would just be easier to donate? Or burn? Or keep hidden in the back of his closet like every memory of Lance?  


꧁❤꧂

  
They count down to New Years with bubbling champagne in stemless wine glasses and shitty, festive sunglasses that blur the edges of their vision. Their apartment is warm and cozy, and Keith knows that he’ll miss it when he moves out in a week. But Adam and Shiro need their space, and Keith will be damned before he gets saddled with playing wedding coordinator.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Just after making his first dinner in his apartment — some microwave thing Adam would sneer at if Keith showed it to him — a news alert pops up on his phone.

The Wimbleton-Smythe Aquarium was undergoing financial troubles and was looking for donations. They wanted to keep their summer camps and free tours running, but without the support of the community, they would inevitably have to cut some programs.

Had Lance’s grant not been accepted? Was government aid recently cut? Were the newest renovations over budget?

Keith bites his nails and ignores the microwave when it beeps.

Without a second thought, Keith texts Acxa and asks when his next match is and how much of the proceeds can be donated to the aquarium.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Living alone is lonelier than Keith thought it would be.

Maybe it’s because he purposefully leaves his phone in the other room. Denies any calls that aren’t his mother and Shiro. But Shiro and Adam have been busy with wedding planning, and Keith is grateful that it’s finally starting. When he had dinner there last week, they looked more relaxed than Keith had seen in months.

So he’d sipped at some foul red wine Adam had picked up and ignored the ever-growing chasm in his chest.

He debates getting a cat or a dog. Something to come home to. Or a dog to jog with and bring to the park and enjoy the warmer days of winter. Someone that will look happy to see him return.

When he brings it up at dinner with Shiro and Adam, they think it’s a wonderful idea — like a teenager accepting their first responsibility.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Of course it happens when he’s driving home from his first visit to the local animal shelter.

Keith knows this isn’t a big deal. He’s taken worse hits from opponents and has walked away. But unfortunately, this good samaritan thinks they’re doing him a favor by calling an ambulance when a jackass ran him off a neighborhood road.

He was only going twenty five miles per hour and he was wearing his helmet, but the old lady gives him a firm glare as she’s talking on the phone. Her husband, with steel wool hair and knobby hands, looks over Keith with an apologetic smile.

“I swear to god if my bike would start, I would drive away before the ambulance got here,” Keith mumbles under his breath. 

He’d been inspecting his motorcycle when the woman ran out, phone in hand and withered fingers pressing to her lips. She’d called for her husband as Keith picked leaves out of his hair. But even after apologizing and explaining that he only had scraped knees, she was dialing 911 with a firm expression.

If his fuel line wasn’t punctured by a million pieces of gravel, Keith would’ve driven out of there in a second.

“She just has a big heart,” her husband says, voice like palms in the breeze. “Our son-in-law was in a bad accident, but no one was there to help him. I’m sorry that she’s causing you trouble, but thank you for allowing her to help.” He places a gentle hand on Keith’s shoulder, and Keith meets his matching emerald eyes.

He folds under the weight. “Of course. And I’m sorry about the flowers.” Keith glances at the deep tire tracks and churned-up dirt that was once an expanse of white buds. “I—I can pay you back or come fix it tomorrow or—”

“I hated the roses anyway.” The old man chuckles like a rattling of his ribs, and it’s so warm that it reminds Keith of Shiro’s grandfather’s laugh. “So you’ve done me a favor. If you tell her you love pansies, I’ll make sure she doesn’t join you in the ambulance or follow you to the hospital.”

Keith shivers at the thought. “Deal.”

The old man’s grin is conspiratorial.

After the call is made, Keith is under the direct attention of the nice old lady. He’s not used to being fussed over, but he tries to bear it with grace. When the police and ambulance pull up, he’s sipping on a cup of sweet tea and desperate to be out from under their direct attention.

The police take statements as the EMTs patch Keith up before helping him into the back of the ambulance.

He slumps against the stretcher with a sigh. And continues to sigh as they drive him to the nearest hospital and bring him to the radiology department. After an x-ray of his chest is taken and the results come back clean, they do another series of vitals and declare that Keith is good to go.

A physician is reviewing the aftercare procedure when a knock sounds on the door. “Sir, I apologize for not informing you sooner, but when you arrived we notified your emergency contacts.”

Keith groans and buries his head into his hands. He can only imagine Shiro’s lecture, all self-righteous and worrying as he storms through the hospital. His brother has never liked the bike, and even though Adam has indulged Keith, he will always be on Shiro’s side regarding his safety. As if today couldn’t get any worse.

“Unfortunately, your primary and secondary contacts didn’t pick up, but your third did. He has just arrived, we’re bringing him back now.” She nods and disappears from sight.

Keith furrows his brows as he debates who his third emergency contact could be. Shiro and Adam are his first two, but he doesn’t remember filling out any new paperwork. He’s barely paying attention to the physician as she finishes reviewing his paperwork.

The door bursts open, and Keith jumps at the thunderous sound of it.

Like an angel, Lance stands in the threshold, vibrant against the stark white of the hospital walls. His hair is a wild mess, curling around his ears and disheveled like he’d been running his fingers through it. Each breath seems to knock itself from Lance’s lungs. Taking a staggering step forward, Lance’s eyes trace the series of bandages wrapped around Keith’s knees and wrist.

Keith exhales, “What—”

“You asshole!” Lance growls with eyes blazing like mercury bubbling in the sun.

The physician nods to Keith and leaves the room, his last line of defense against the fury that is Lance Serrano.

Once the door to the room is shut, Lance marches forward with furrowed brows and grinding teeth. “I — I thought — I got a call—” Lance is stumbling on his words, but Keith knows him well enough to piece the fragmented sentences together.

“I didn’t mean—” Keith begins, hoping to explain that he didn’t want to drag Lance into this — that he didn’t even want to come to the hospital, but he’s cut off by the warm press of Lance’s palms on his cheeks.

Lance carefully holds Keith’s face like he’s waiting for Keith to vanish, to be some kind of dream or apparition. His fingertips curl into the loose strands of Keith’s hair.

“I thought I lost you,” Lance breathes and presses dangerously close. Keith’s sure Lance can feel the flutter of his pulse beneath his fingertips. “I thought I lost you, and it almost killed me, Keith.”

“I’m okay.” Keith rests his hands against Lance’s wrists, desperate to press Lance’s palms more firmly to his cheeks. To settle deeper into this moment. To push forward and see if Lance still tastes sweet.

Lance shakes his head and tucks his chin. Each word comes out shaky, like Lance’s entire being is trembling along with his fingers. “It was like my nightmares. A phone call from the hospital, but instead of Cynthia it was _you_. And I could only think about your dumb motorcycle and your recklessness and how much I love you.” His nails curl almost painfully into the tender skin behind Keith’s jaw. “How—how could it hurt worse than Cynthia when you’re —”

“I’m okay, Lance. Just a couple bruised ribs and a sprained wrist.” Keith tilts his head to the side to catch a glimpse of Lance’s expression.

But Lance drops his hands from Keith’s cheeks and turns away from him. “I know you’re okay,” Lance growls and the glimpse of his features show a darkness Keith is unfamiliar with. “I know. I know, but my eyes are already grey Keith. So I didn’t _know. I couldn’t know._ ” Lance paces around the room, hands flying in jerky motions like he’s trying to spin all of his fears into something manageable.

Like he’s a windstorm of love and affection in this tiny hospital room. He’s the quintessence of everything Keith has always dreamed about; he has always wanted something like the endless devotion of his parents’ love, one so powerful and strong that it almost drove his mother to madness. A madness of a love, something not bound by sanity or reality.

Something larger than his heart, than his mind, than this entire world.

Lance slumps against the small sink in the room, shoulders hunched and hair looking more frazzled than before. The winds dying down and only leaving destruction behind.

Keith wants to comfort him, to assuage his fears and apologize for reminding him of the day he lost his soulmate. But what leaves his lips is a whisper of hurt and desire, “I told you not to go.”

Because he can still taste Lance on his tongue. He can still remember the solid heat of Lance’s wrist in his grasp as he begged him to stay — volunteered to forget how all-consuming his feelings were just for the sake of staying in Lance’s life.

And Lance still left.

Even though it’s been three months, the ache is still raw. The chasm ever-growing in his chest. A slowly progressing disease that threatens to reduce him to a single grey eye, ash-colored and mercury-stained.

Lance’s hands drop from his hair, and Keith catches his expression. It looks war-torn. Battered and dim and nothing compared to the first smile Keith saw — so out of place in that mildew and air-freshener saturated air.

It looks closer to the boy that collapsed against him in a bathroom with tears hidden in Keith’s collar. Closer to the voice that had called him on the cusp of dawn. Closer to the man who had left him.

“I know. I didn’t want to leave,” Lance whispers like he hopes Keith won’t hear him.

“Then why did you?” Keith can’t keep the seething anger out of his tone. His hands curl to fists at his sides, and his sprained wrist aches with the effort.

Lance rolls his eyes, and part of Keith flashes with red-hot anger at Lance’s indifference, only for it to settle moments later when it’s obvious he was just holding back tears. “I just couldn’t think beyond myself and my problems, and — and god, it felt like I was betraying Cynthia.”

The rawness to Lance’s voice makes Keith’s chin tremble and tears well up in his eyes.

Because he can’t imagine.

He’s always had no one, so imaging Lance as his soulmate was almost too easy.

But Lance had someone — someone he _loved_. And Keith had tried to be her, to replace Lance’s soulmate.

Keith parts his lips to apologize, to say something about the kiss, to restate his plea of at least being friends.

But Lance speaks first, “Cyn and I were meant to be together and those three months were magical. I’ll never fucking forget them. But with you — Keith, you have to know by now—”

“Lance—”

“You have to know how much I love you.” Lance marches forward with outstretched hands, and Keith wants to fall into them. But he holds himself back, because Lance admitted his feelings months ago, only to leave. “I would give up everything to be with you. But — but Cynthia is gone and being with you felt like I was betraying everything we ever had. I already had my soulmate, Keith.”

Keith ducks his chin, hoping to hide the glint of tears in his eyes. His hands press into his thighs to steady their trembling, but he knows that Lance is too familiar with his silent method of communication.

He wishes this happened anywhere else. Because he could just climb on his bike and never have to meet Lance’s bittersweet expression. But he’s stuck in this hospital until he checks out and gets a ride home — which is incidentally Lance.

Lance takes another step closer, and Keith can feel the distant heat of his skin.

But Keith doesn’t look up. He speaks into the torn collar of his leather jacket, “I know, Lance. I understand why we can’t be together.”

“No, no. I just —” Lance huffs and Keith watches him from under his bangs. Lance clenches fistfuls of his hair, pulling on the edges and grunting out his frustration. “Goddamnit Keith!” He swings his arms out to the side, fully drawing Keith’s gaze like a moth drawn to a light — even when it knows it’s going to get burned. “I want to be with you, but I don’t want to be your soulmate. I want to be your boyfriend.”

“Lance—” Keith jumps to his feet and stitches up the distance between them.

“I love you _so fucking much_ , but you aren’t my soulmate.” Lance looks up to see that there’s only a breath between them. His voice falters as he continues, hands reaching for Keith but unable to grab hold. “My soulmate died more than a year ago, and she was an amazing woman. Your soulmate died years ago without ever meeting you. Our soulmates left us lonely and broken-hearted, so let’s not be soulmates. Let’s be better than that — be something that we choose despite all the odds, something we can’t imagine living without. Okay?”

“Lance from the very first day, I’ve chosen you.” Keith pushes forward, tilting his head up just slightly so he can whisper against Lance’s lips, “I’ve never wanted anyone else but you.”

Lance closes the distance between their lips. And in that second, the world felt whole. Lance’s arms wind around Keith’s waist and steal the last of the space between them. Keith digs his hands into Lance’s hair, tugging and pulling and desperate. Because he's always desperate for Lance, wanting and longing and aching. He moans into the kiss, and he feels Lance smile against his lips. It’s a playful thing, passionate and loving but playful.

All this time Keith has been wanting, and now he’s finally fulfilled.

They pull apart to breathe, to look at each other and memorize the pink flush on their cheeks and the kiss-red color of their lips.

“I love you,” Keith sighs.

Lance’s eyes are almost closed and the words are said softly across Keith’s lips, “I love you too, Keith.”

Keith won’t say it outloud, but this feels like destiny.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY!! ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ✩‧₊˚


	11. Epilogue

It’s Adam who admits to adding Lance to Keith’s emergency contact list. He said it was an idea he had when planning for the honeymoon, and he wanted to do it before he forgot.

Keith wishes he could wipe the smugness from Adam’s grin, but with Lance at his side, Keith can’t hate how this all happened.

Pressing the bottom of a pen to his lips, Adam asks, “So I’ll write you down as having a plus one?”  


꧁❤꧂

  
Just because they’re accepted among their friends and family, it doesn’t make society any easier.

People still avoid them on the sidewalk and give them an even bigger space than before. There are muted whispers, hisses of curses and degradation and things that Keith’s heard hissed at him his entire life. Now it’s with the added heat of betrayal to their eyes, like Keith and Lance’s romance has made their soulmates roll over in their graves.

But Krolia embraces Lance like he is Keith’s soulmate, his future. She has tears in her eyes as she clears her throat. “It’s so nice to meet you, Lance.”

Keith hasn’t seen her this emotional since he was a child, and it warms something in his heart to see how ecstatic she is for his happiness.

And Lance’s family is similar — once they’ve gotten over their shock. They’re warm and welcoming and Keith falls into their upbeat family dynamic with surprising ease. Marco brings his girlfriend around, and even though Lance had lamented her presence at the last family gathering, Keith sees them chatting amicably.

Marco bumps Keith’s shoulder and hands him a beer. “It’s good to see Lance smile like that again. We were a little worried he’d be mourning forever. Soulmates are a little terrifying like that.”

Keith hums in response, understanding Marco’s fear of the strength of a soulmate bond — one that can give life and take it away just as easily.

“Yeah,” Keith whispers.

Keith still has dreams about Lance with eyes the shade of Keith’s long-faded, once-blue iris. It’s a haunting thought, because every moment with Lance comes with a certainty. It cements the knowledge that Keith has kept buried since that day in the hospital: he was meant for Lance.

The gods have a funny way of dictating destiny, but if Keith gets to keep Lance, maybe he can forgive them for all of his pain.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Keith doesn’t want to return to group. He is ashamed by the months spent without, hiding from Lance and from the burdensome weight of his feelings. But Lance does what he’s always done for Keith: makes him feel brave for the smallest and easiest thing.

So they walk into group therapy holding hands.

Allura welcomes Keith back with open arms and an inquisitive glint to her eyes. Kit smiles softly at them, but Antoni and Heather refuse to meet their eyes. Mirko’s expression doesn’t falter at Keith’s reappearance while Quinton nods his head in greeting with a familiar cup of coffee in hand.

Lance and Keith sit in their usual seats, nestled together and even closer than before.

Halfway through the meeting Heather snaps, “Why are you guys here anyway? If you’re dating, why do you even care about your soulmates?” Her gaze burns a little harsher when it settles on Lance.

Lance’s grip curls tighter around Keith’s shoulders. If Keith couldn’t feel the tension thrumming through Lance’s body, he would’ve trusted Lance’s calm tone. “Loving Keith doesn’t just suddenly fix everything that I’ve been dealing with, Heather. I understand the sentiment that soulmates are the end-all, be-all, but I’m choosing to embrace the opportunity to move on.”

“Your soulmate isn’t someone you’re supposed to _move on_ from,” Heather growls with her hands clutching at her knees, nails bared and a feral nature to her eyes that Keith hasn’t seen since his first session.

Keith glances at Allura and watches the curling of her lip and the narrowing of her gaze. But she doesn't say anything. Instead, she makes a short note and watches Heather and Lance with an intensity Keith is familiar with — even after all these months away.

“I couldn’t be that person anymore.” Lance inhales deeply, before breathing out slowly through his nose. “I will always love Cynthia, but I couldn’t wallow and punish myself for the rest of my life. I know Cynthia would want me to be happy, even if it meant loving someone else.”

Keith places a hand on Lance’s thigh and relishes in the familiarity of the action.

Heather parts her lips, poised to spit some poison that Keith isn’t immune to — not that he was ever immune to the venom people used for the past sixteen years. But this is different. It’s new and fragile, and Keith feels so vulnerable.

The words tumble from his lips before he can stop them, “Why do you even care?”

“Excuse me?” Heather snarls.

Gritting his teeth, Keith tilts his chin up and meets Heather’s vicious glare. “Why do you care, Heather? Do you think this is easy — like it’s an escape from all of the pain and loss we’ve been dealing with?” His hands curl into fists at his sides, longing to hit something to rid himself of the boiling anger and constant anxiety. “Because it’s not easy. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Lance leans over so his cheek rests attop of Keith’s head, a comforting gesture that Keith longs to sink into — but his blood still hums with adrenaline and indignation.

Pulling out from under Lance’s restful position, Keith meets his boyfriend’s gaze. There’s a softness beneath the crackle of his anger, a softness that Keith sinks into. “But Lance makes it all worth it, and it’s something I wouldn’t trade for a million soulmates.”

Lance’s smile is a delicate thing that Keith longs to kiss.

Allura claps her hands and cuts Heather off with a narrowed gaze. “Lance and Keith, thank you for sharing. I’m glad to know that you both are going to continue joining us.” She gives Keith a warm smile that stems from their friendship rather than her professionalism.

Keith nods and leans into Lance a little more as they all talk about what they’ve lost and the old wounds that never seem to close.  


꧁❤꧂

  
“Have you gotten worse?” Lance’s tone is teasing as he smiles around the straw pinched between his teeth. His hip rests on the bowling ball return as his eyes trace the line of Keith’s body.

“Shut up, Lance,” Keith chuckles and cocks his hip as he brings the bowling ball up, emulating the form Lance uses. “It’s a little difficult to play when someone is constantly checking you out.”

Lance stands up abruptly, looking around the half-empty bowling alley with a severe scowl on his face. “Who?”

Keith smothers the smile that pulls at the corners of his lips, but the second their eyes meet, they can’t fight their cackling laughter. Keith shakes his head and ignores the puking sound Pidge makes behind them.

Lance stitches up the distance between them and slings an arm over Keith’s shoulders. Keith doesn’t fight the urge to curl into Lance’s warmth. “Come on, babe. I’m just appreciating your bowling skills,” Lance's voice is all laughter and a teasing tone that stirs the embers in Keith’s stomach.

Everything about Lance is so warm that Keith is afraid of igniting under the force of it.

“You’re appreciating something alright,” Keith mumbles under his breath, before shaking out of Lance’s hold and bowling a strike. Turning around, Keith can’t fight his grin at Lance’s shocked expression. “Now who’s gotten worse?”

Before Lance can say anything, Pidge nudges them apart and grabs their eight pound ball from the return. “Get off the lane, losers. The rest of us need to bowl.” But they smile at Keith like they’re sharing a secret before sending the ball straight into the gutter with a groan.

Lance pulls Keith towards the small table and chairs and collapses into the seat with a sigh. “Damn, I thought you were going to need private bowling lessons or something.” There’s a familiar twinkle to Lance’s eyes that Keith can’t ignore.

“Well, maybe that can still be arranged.” Keith smiles widely and leans closer to Lance, desperate for a taste of the sugary soda his boyfriend is drinking. He’s always been so desperate for Lance, but now he doesn’t need to hold himself back.

Closing the distance between them, Keith steals a kiss right before it’s Lance’s turn to bowl.

It’s Lance’s first and only gutter ball of the game.  


꧁❤꧂

  
“Well my vote is for this,” Pidge pulls up their phone to show the dvd cover printed with the title ‘H.H. Holmes: America’s First Serial Killer.’

Keith eats a handful of popcorn to avoid smiling at Hunk and Lance’s dramatic reaction. Hunk is already threatening to leave, one shoe on and the other dangling from his outstretched hand. Lance is guarding the TV, like that would stop Pidge from streaming it.

“No! No, we are not watching anything like that in this apartment again.” Lance’s teeth are set on edge and his shoulders are hunched up to his ears.

Pidge turns a mischievous smile towards Keith. “Why don’t we take it to a vote?”

“Hunk and I vote no! So you’re outvoted, Pidge.” Lance is practically screaming, and if Keith wasn’t on the verge of laughing, he would say something about them receiving another noise complaint from their neighbors.

“Keith hasn’t voted yet,” they point a thumb at Keith with a subtle shrug of their shoulders.

Keith can’t fight his smile anymore as he begins, “Well—”

“Keith, I swear to God.” Lance marches forward and points a finger into Keith’s chest. “I know it’s only been four months, but I will break up with you if you vote for this goddamn movie.” There’s humor to his voice beneath the firm declaration.

Keith pushes forward so that Lance’s entire palm is pressed against his chest. He fights the urge to pull Lance down into his lap and bury his face into his boyfriend’s t-shirt and smell the familiar scent of his own detergent — because Lance is borrowing a t-shirt of his, because Lance has been staying over more often than not.

Shrugging his shoulders and turning to face Pidge, Keith says, “Sorry Pidge. I’ve been blackmailed—”

“Yes!” Lance cheers and reaches for the old dvd case that sits on the coffee table.

“—but that doesn’t mean I’m voting for Lance’s movie.” Keith finishes just as Lance holds up the well-loved copy of _The Lion King_. Lance’s shoulders droop. “Because we just watched it like a month ago.” But the fondness in his voice doesn’t dissipate as they all present pros and cons to each of their choices.

Eventually, they end up drawing lots to pick a movie.

And that’s how they end up watching a documentary about America’s first serial killer.

But Keith can’t fault Pidge’s movie choice. Maybe it’s because Lance curls up against his side and occasionally buries his face into Keith’s chest to avoid watching. Keith traces patterns on Lance’s skin and enjoys how his boyfriend melts against him. Enjoys how Lance sleeps soundly with Keith at his side.

When asked about it the next morning, Lance flips a pancake — wearing boxers and a large t-shirt — and retorts, “Well, I know you’d protect me.”

Keith chuckles and buries the wish that he could protect Lance from everything.  


꧁❤꧂

  
Maybe happiness is a lot like loss; the world still goes on even though it feels like time stops.

Keith wishes he could slow it all down, stretch out the moments with Lance. Make each second into something syrupy or something durable enough to weather eternity.

Like the moments that Lance traces patterns on his bare skin, while they lay on their rumpled covers. Or when sunrise filters through the clouds while Keith is pulling on his running shoes and admiring Lance’s sleeping face. Or when Keith dances with Lance in their kitchen in stockinged feet or in the club with pulsing lights and lust burning at their lips or at Shiro and Adam’s wedding.

He wants these moments to last a lifetime.

He’s felt greedy since he met Lance, desperate for his attention and his love and everything that Lance could give. But he thinks he’s become even more greedy since they started dating, because now he won’t settle for just a little. He wants a lifetime with Lance.

“You coming?” Lance asks over his shoulder standing at the door of their apartment — the apartment that once seemed so dreary to Keith is now alive with the presence of Lance. They have art hanging on the walls and colorful throw pillows and dozens of lost socks scattered around the living room. It feels like a home now.

Kosmo is pulling at his leash, threatening to send Lance toppling to the floor. Lance has a steadying hand on the doorframe waiting for Keith so they can go to go to the park and so Kosmo can run circles around the blanket Lance has draped over his elbow.

There’s a brightness to Lance’s smile that Keith wants to capture on camera, to brand into his heart so that he can carry it with him every day. Because a life with Lance still feels like a fairytale, one of his too-good-to-be-true nightmares.

But it is real. It’s been real for almost a year and a half. And every morning that Keith wakes at the crack of dawn with Lance nestled against his side feels like another blessing.

The picnic basket is heavy in his hands as he hefts it onto one shoulder. “Yeah, I’m ready,” Keith announces, following after Lance and playing with the small velvet ring box in his pocket.

He’s ready for a lifetime.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks!
> 
> I hope that you enjoyed my piece for Klance Pinefest 2020, because I really enjoyed writing it and being able to finally share it with you all (°◡°♡)

**Author's Note:**

> I want to give a big thank you to my beta, [Malevelynce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malevelynce/pseuds/Malevelynce), who let me talk about this fic for waaaaaaaay too long haha
> 
> Once again, the beautiful art in this piece is from Elle Gee. Please make sure to give her all of your love on her social medias that you can find her on her [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/ellegee2018/?hl=en), [twitter](https://twitter.com/ellegee2018), and [tumblr](https://ellegee2018.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I cherish every comment and kudos! You can also come scream at me on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/communikateeee) °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°


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